d the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold Easter."

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember
the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward
pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by
Lucy.

"I AM so glad to see you," said the girl, who was in a state of
spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if
her cousin had permitted it. "Just fancy how small the world is. Summer
Street, too, makes it so specially funny."

"Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said Miss
Bartlett, filling up the gap, "and she happened to tell me in the course
of conversation that you have just accepted the living--"

"Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn't know that I knew you
at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: 'Mr. Beebe
is--'"

"Quite right," said the clergyman. "I move into the Rectory at Summer
Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming
neighbourhood."

"Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner." Mr. Beebe
bowed.

"There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it's not often
we get him to ch---- The church is rather far off, I mean."

"Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner."

"I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it."

He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than
to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl
whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she
had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and
he was first in the field. "Don't neglect the country round," his advice
concluded. "The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by
Settignano, or something of that sort."

"No!" cried a voice from the top of the table. "Mr. Beebe, you are
wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato."

"That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. "We
are in luck."

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told
them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to
get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how
much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided,
almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked,
kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of