prompt:
Chapter: It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and
the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All
that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer
Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon
dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or
of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his
Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.

"Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."

"M'm."

"They might amuse you."

Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new
people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just
moved in.

"I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth
it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to
Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through
which much squalor was visible.

A grave voice replied, "Hullo!"

"I've brought someone to see you."

"I'll be down in a minute."

The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed
to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The
sitting-room itself was blocked with books.

"Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that
sort?"

"I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they
got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of
All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.
Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your
generation knows its own business, Honeychurch."

"Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones.

On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this
inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes."

"I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's
doing."

"How very odd of him!"

"Surely you agree?"

But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on
spoiling the furniture.

"Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.
"Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound."

"The same as Lucy's got."

"Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?"

"She came back yesterday."

"I suppose she had a good time?"

"Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker
than ever."

"That's good hearing."

"I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe."

Mr. Beebe ignored the remark.

"Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different
now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books."

"So will you."

"Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil
is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There
are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--"

"What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll
come another time."

George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour."

Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy,
perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted
washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have
a bathe."

"Oh, all right," said George, impassive.

Mr. Beebe was highly entertained.

"'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled.
"That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid
it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been
introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How
do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the
sexes are equal."

"I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly
descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall
be comrades, and George thinks the same."

"We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired.

"The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you
place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no
longer despise our bodies."

Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.

"In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body
less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the
garden."

"I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of
philosophy that was approaching him.

"I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to
Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must
discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is
our heritage."

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at
Florence."

"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for
a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage
is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too.
He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and
arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have
not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and
I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the
Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a
glorious country, Honeychurch!"

"Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have
the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope."

"CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your
grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious
country."

Mr. Beebe came to the rescue.

"Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return
our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized
about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with
the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe
this afternoon."

"Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back
to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good.
George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's
well."

George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of
one who has handled furniture.

"Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond,
don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better."

"Yes--I have said 'Yes' already."

Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out
of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little
time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes
and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the
bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not
bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like
a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of
Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight
but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the
tree-tops above their heads.

"And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize
that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?"

"I did not. Miss Lavish told me."

"When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of
Coincidence.'"

No enthusiasm.

"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we
suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here
now, when one comes to reflect."

To his relief, George began to talk.

"It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung
together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The
twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--"

"You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you
a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't
do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where
did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?"

"Italy."

"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss
Honeychurch?"

"National Gallery."

"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence
and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our
friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it."

"It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it
Italy if it makes you less unhappy."

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was
infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.

"And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is
still to write."

Silence.

Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you
have come."

Silence.

"Here we are!" called Freddy.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.

"In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically.

They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,
set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain
the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the
rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a
beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.

"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies
are necessary for the pond."

George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his
boots.

"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in
seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?"

No one knew, or seemed to care.

"These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of
water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or
brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming."

"Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself.

Mr. Beebe thought he was not.

"Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in.

"Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of
apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were
a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his
muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and
watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.

"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in
either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.

"Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded
margin.

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the
question properly.

"Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful,
water's simply ripping."

"Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and
sputtering at the sun.

"Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do."

"Apooshoo, kouf."

Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked
around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees,
rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against
the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans
receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not
even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of
man?

"I may as well wash too"; and soon his garments made a third little pile
on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.

It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy
said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen
rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in
Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or
because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the
gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some
reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and
Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each
other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they
feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He
smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them,
muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.

"Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine,
and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a
second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight.

They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being
Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get
clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the
sward, proclaiming:

"No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us
shall all flesh turn in the end."

"A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing
it beside an imaginary goal-post.

"Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick.

"Goal!"

"Goal!"

"Pass!"

"Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe.

Clothes flew in all directions.

"Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!"

But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees,
Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake
hat on his dripping hair.

"That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in
his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural
Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!"

Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.

"Hi! hi! LADIES!"

Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear
Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,
Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.
Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some
bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the
path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat.

"Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those
unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!
Whatever has happened?"

"Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he
must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he
knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy
sat concealed.

"Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,
Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--"

"No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol
and evidently 'minded.'

"I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond."

"This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way."

They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant
expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.

"Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a
freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't
be trodden on, can I?"

"Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not
have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?"

"Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to dry, and
if another fellow--"

"Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position to
argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr.
Beebe! How unfortunate again--"

For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface
garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary
George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.

"And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've
swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you
beast, you've got on my bags."

"Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain
shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these
colds come of not drying thoroughly."

"Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come."

"Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.

He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and
personable against the shadowy woods, he called:

"Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!"

"Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow."

Miss Honeychurch bowed.

That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the
pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a
call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose
influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for
youth.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's a beautiful Saturday in Summer Street, and Mr. Beebe and Freddy decide to visit the Emersons. Freddy is skeptical. We observe the Emerson abode with Freddy and Mr. Beebe. The house is mostly populated with books; George's taste is unsurprisingly somewhat avant-garde. A quote is written on the wardrobe. It reads "Mistrust any enterprises that require new clothes," a slight variation on a Thoreau quote. Freddy is even less sure about his new neighbors after noticing this. Some Giotto prints are scattered around, no doubt purchased in Florence. While waiting for their hosts, Mr. Beebe and Freddy talk about Lucy, who is back from London. Apparently things are better than ever between her and Cecil . Poor Freddy feels stupid. He is worried that Lucy will change now that she's marrying Cecil; their mother thinks that Lucy will read all kinds of new books and get new ideas. George finally comes to speak to them, and is introduced to Freddy. Freddy, for reasons known only to him, immediately asks George if he would like to go swimming. George agrees. Mr. Beebe is amused by the oddness of youth. Mr. Emerson emerges as Mr. Beebe makes a comment about how women would never introduce themselves in such a fashion , and puts forth his view that men and women are equal, and that we'll all find the Garden of Eden when we stop being ashamed of our bodies. Freddy, unhappy with the philosophical turn the conversation is taking, insists upon the "bathe." After some slightly off-kilter introductions are finished, the two young men and the clergyman head off to find Freddy's pond. George is an unenthusiastic conversationalist. Mr. Beebe tries to engage him in some small talk about the coincidence of them all meeting up; George thinks it's all capital-F-Fate instead of mere chance. The men arrive at the pond, which is small but beautiful. It's overflowing a bit from recent rainy weather, and sounds fairly idyllic. Mr. Beebe attempts to uphold polite conversation about the local plant life, George moodily undresses, and Freddy "prances" into the pond. The pond is barely big enough for one person - Freddy swims around as much as he can, pleased with the water. George tumbles in accidentally, and grudgingly admits that it's pretty nice. Mr. Beebe agrees to bathe as well. Freddy swallows a pollywog . Though it is reminiscent of swimming in a salad, there's something magical about the pond - the men are overtaken by boyish playfulness, and goof around. A giant water-fight breaks out, which devolves into a naked soccer game played with bundles of clothing. The younger men let loose, and run off with Mr. Beebe's clothes. Unfortunately, Mrs. Honeychurch, Lucy, and Cecil happen to be strolling to the forest at this very moment. Mr. Beebe notices them, tries to catch George and Freddy's attention, but fails. The men belatedly attempt to hide, as Cecil attempts to lead the women to "safety." Freddy is discovered, and tries to explain himself to his mother who, we gather, is both alarmed and perhaps a little amused. George, unperturbed, yells over to Freddy that he has caught a fish. Freddy responds intelligently that he has swallowed another pollywog. George emerges, partially dressed and "radiant," and very improperly greets Lucy. Lucy and her mother bow to him, unsure of what else to do, and head off home. Overnight, the pond shrinks back to its normal size, but the spirit of youthful abandon it inspired doesn't wear off - we suspect that this means there are more hijinks to come.


prompt:
Chapter: How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had
always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which
surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George
would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats
and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had
imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent
or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had
never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of
the morning star.

Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she
reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree
of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the
scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the
stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too
much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will not shake hands with him.
That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To
gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across
the rubbish that cumbers the world.

So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was
another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted
to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear
about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did
not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and
made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy
soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well
for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to
discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though
not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing
satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the
teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.

"Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter
with Cecil?"

The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with
charity and restraint.

"No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right."

"Perhaps he's tired."

Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.

"Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering
displeasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him."

"I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that."

"Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little
girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid
fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere."

"Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?"

"Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?"

"Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing
trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes
him sometimes seem--"

"Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets
rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.

"Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!"

"Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.
No. It is the same with Cecil all over."

"By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was
away in London."

This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.
Honeychurch resented it.

"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.
Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to
contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor
intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;
your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly
remember."

"I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does
not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset
him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE."

"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"

"You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we
do."

"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and
spoiling everyone's pleasure?"

"We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled
her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in
London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations
had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and
bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization
had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords,
garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through
pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.

She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed
her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made
things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant
to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not
why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.

"Go and dress, dear; you'll be late."

"All right, mother--"

"Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go."

She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced
north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the
winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing
window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed
to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to
her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to
have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her
mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about.
Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and
joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.

"I say, those are topping people."

"My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take
them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for
you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget
the place is growing half suburban."

"I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this
muddle."

"What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've
ordered new balls."

"I meant it's better not. I really mean it."

He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the
passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with
temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they
impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch
opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I
have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from
Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away.

"Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too."

"How's Charlotte?"

"All right."

"Lucy!"

The unfortunate girl returned.

"You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences.
Did Charlotte mention her boiler?"

"Her WHAT?"

"Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and
her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?"

"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall
have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil."

Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come
here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And,
though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and
Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.

So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.
At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one
member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised
their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.

Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew
up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.
Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:

"Lucy, what's Emerson like?"

"I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a
reply.

"Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?"

"Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here."

"He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil.

Freddy looked at him doubtfully.

"How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch.

"Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did."

"Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her
letter."

"One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get
through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awful
friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if
she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."

"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind."

"She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,
for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands
of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women
who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety
by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be
written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil
yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his
plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But
soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the
darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that
touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be
nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it
had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter,
Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to
haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned
now, and with appalling vividness.

"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?"

"I tore the thing up."

"Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?"

"Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose."

"Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys
upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with
the meat."

Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.

"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the
spirit of her remark rather than the substance.

"And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could
squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while
plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for
so long."

It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest
violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs.

"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on
the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's
got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take
in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be
done."

"Nonsense! It can."

"If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise."

"Minnie can sleep with you."

"I won't have her."

"Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy."

"Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again
laying his hand over his eyes.

"It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties,
but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so."

Alas!

"The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."

"No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You
haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be,
though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but
spoil us by not asking her to come."

"Hear, hear!" said Cecil.

Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling
than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of
you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of
beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and
plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and
however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like
to grow old."

Cecil crumbled his bread.

"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on
my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like
such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea
just right."

"I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this
difficulty when we try to give her some little return."

But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett.
She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up
treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss
Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I
can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of
me."

"From your own account, you told her as much."

"Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--"

The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping
the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the
same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy
Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible
world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.

"I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,"
said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the
admirable cooking.

"I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because in
point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't
care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed."

Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas,
maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and Lucy get down from
our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want no
dessert."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Lucy is unhappy with the way her reunion with George went off. She had rehearsed the moment over and over in her mind but, as she observes, these things rarely turn out the way we plan them to. As Lucy ponders this dilemma, she is with Mrs. Honeychurch and Cecil, visiting an old friend, Mrs. Butterworth. Cecil hates visits like this, and makes himself quite difficult. On returning to Windy Corner, Mrs. Honeychurch reveals to Lucy that she's not Cecil's biggest fan - he's always being rude to people he doesn't like , and constantly stops the Honeychurches from having fun. He doesn't even like it when Freddy sings funny songs, which sounds pretty enjoyable to us. What a spoilsport. Lucy is confused by the clash of Cecil-world and Honeychurch-world, and it puts her in a bad mood. Freddy unfortuitously chooses this moment to come up and ask her about George, whom he likes tremendously. He intends to invite the Emersons over for tennis on Sunday. Mrs. Honeychurch mentions Charlotte, who apparently is having troubles with her hot water boiler. This is the absolute last thing Lucy wants to hear, and she almost blows her top. Fortunately, her mother notices and calms her down. Emotional crisis averted, the family sits down to dinner. Freddy brings up George again, but Lucy distracts everyone by bringing up Miss Lavish - it turns out that Mrs. Honeychurch hates woman novelists. But talk of writing women can't last forever, and the conversation eventually turns back down the disastrous path it came from. Mrs. Honeychurch proposes something terrible - she plans to ask Charlotte to come and stay, since she's having her house's plumbing fixed. Lucy and Cecil are opposed to this plan, but Freddy, who's always willing to see the best in people, feebly defends Charlotte. We learn that there will be many visitors in the next week, which should be exciting... The "ghosts" of Lucy's tormented memories are everywhere - everything is changing for her, and even the places of her childhood are being overtaken by images of George and of Italy. It's decided that Charlotte will come next week. Cecil abruptly concludes the chapter by rudely asking if he and Lucy can leave the dinner table.


prompt:
Chapter: Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure
that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior
spare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,
equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday
week.

Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only
faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at
times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves.
When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her
nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might
upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to
George--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice
moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she
really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves,
which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered
from "things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what."
Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the
troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young
Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is
easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves"
or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved
Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the
phrases should have been reversed?

But the external situation--she will face that bravely.

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between
Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,
and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,
and was glad that he did not seem shy either.

"A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his
crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life
gracefully."

Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more."

"Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up."

That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell,
and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the
clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival.
She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.
Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton
station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy
and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for
a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with
little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper
lawn for tea.

"I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising
from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.
"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on
paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate."

"Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her
brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial,
exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince
Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour."

"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and
looked at her frayed glove.

"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to
the driver."

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could
any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four
half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who
am I to give the sovereign to?"

"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy.

"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not
hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt
settling of accounts."

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be
quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking
his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned
round.

But this did not do, either.

"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me
wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost."

"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work
out right if you give the pound to me."

"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr.
Vyse?"

"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we
shall avoid this deplorable gambling."

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered
up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For
a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers.
Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying
twaddle.

"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched
the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the
quid."

"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly.
"Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see."

"But I don't see--"

They tried to stifle her with cake.

"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss
Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's
ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss
What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver."

"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you,
dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change
for half a crown?"

"I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision.

"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get
Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the
beginning."

"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and
followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity.
When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said
quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?"

"No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue
for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a
sovereign's worth of silver."

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were
too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke
or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had
been a ruse to surprise the soul.

"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned.
"I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except
two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely
now."

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.
John ascending, which had been framed.

"How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse
should come to hear of it from some other source."

"Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson
is all right, and what other source is there?"

Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking
through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth."

Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves
if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of
Cecil?"

"We must think of every possibility."

"Oh, it's all right."

"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know."

"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but
even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at
it."

"To contradict it?"

"No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust
him, for he desired her untouched.

"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what
they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different."

"Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing.
What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say,
'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!"

Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I
blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able
to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You
will never forgive me."

"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't."

For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with
a teaspoon.

"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have
you seen the young one yet?"

"Yes, I have."

"What happened?"

"We met at the Rectory."

"What line is he taking up?"

"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all
right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly?
I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any
nuisance, Charlotte."

"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."

Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that
there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She
paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through
the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It
was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from
the station.

"Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett.

"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into
all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we
ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a
person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;
it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire
me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and
has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has
improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into
tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big
railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa
was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There!
Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we
don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to
have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting."

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected
an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly
people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the
entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of
them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her
brain.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The plans are set - Charlotte will come to stay at Windy Corner, and George will come to play tennis with Freddy on Sunday. Lucy feels disaster approaching. Lucy's feelings for George are complicated; he makes her nervous, but she wants to be near him. The narrator wisely notes that it's obvious to us that Lucy is in love with George, but it's far from obvious to her. Instead, she is confused, still believing that she loves Cecil instead. We learn that Lucy and George had another meeting , in which they seem to have gotten along quite well - in a post-conversation instant replay with Mr. Beebe , Lucy observes that George seems to be in better spirits. She can't stop thinking about him, and wishes he was nearby. Charlotte arrives, after much drama , then further drama ensues as she attempts to pay the cab driver. Everyone is in an uproar; Lucy is in a foul mood. Charlotte, of course, immediately wants to discuss the Emerson situation in her usual melodramatic fashion. Lucy demonstrates that she certainly has changed - she takes over the conversation and essentially brushes Charlotte off, telling her not to worry.


prompt:
Chapter: The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most
of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up
the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of
mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the
heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves
unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in
either arose the tinkle of church bells.

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which
lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent
sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't
go"--"Well, I don't blame them"--Minnie says, "need she go?"--"Tell
her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I
trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she
at all events was one for church.

The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by
Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies
whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down
at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on
George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the
catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The
ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender
shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning
by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the
caress.

Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise
dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her
throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an
engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a
little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not
to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may
frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo
and the western hills.

"Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf
and leaving it about to spoil?"

"It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading."

"But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo."

Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a
Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time
to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful
how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like
the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning
she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil
had said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too
had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the
dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable
elsewhere, the dear sun.

"Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?"

She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a
Sunday fluster.

"It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar
clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice
bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped.
(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.
Minnie!"

"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions.

"Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse"--it was always the horse,
never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she
so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses.
Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!"

Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and
the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't
see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The
young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.
Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss
Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down
the stairs.

"Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but
sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--"

"Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely
frock! You put us all to shame."

"If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear
them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and
placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,
and then they drove off.

"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.

Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church
and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had
said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to
overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy
Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a
spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that
might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject
pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the
Emersons were different.

She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down
the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie
Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father
and son smoking in the garden.

"Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he
knows me already."

He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them
formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how
glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad
too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with
Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and
asked him how he liked his new house.

"Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;
she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though,
that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women
mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it."

"I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch
uneasily.

"Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,"
said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He
thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed."

"And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to
give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy.

"Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid
censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,
though his name was never mentioned.

"So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it
does seem so unkind."

"There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George,
watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.

"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all
this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?"

"There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain
amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow
on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to
place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place
where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very
much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!"

"Eh--?"

"I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like
that to poor Freddy."

George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would
get on rather well.

"No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his
philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of
Interrogation first."

"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks
forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind
tennis on Sunday--?"

"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish
between Sunday--"

"Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's
settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so
pleased."

He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter
about in these days.

She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the
Miss Alans."

"I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The
kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came
out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the
morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never
spoken against affection.

Miss Bartlett approached.

"You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.
"You met her with my daughter in Florence."

"Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the
garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria.
Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini
again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the
old, old battle of the room with the view.

George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was
ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up
to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything
that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight
to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as
girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To
one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a
truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw
her photographs into the River Arno.

"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for
people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good
spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."

Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her
reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then
she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told;
I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove
away.

Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence
escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had
sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted
it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a
tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the
melody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was
not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her
hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But
he has not told. He will not tell."

She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between
us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss
Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at
Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or
little, was guarded.

Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted
her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so
safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:

"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved
enormously."

"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,
and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy
Corner for educational purposes.

"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship
which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He
had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned.

"You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is
coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only
don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing
for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to
her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.

Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some
one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not
visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It
will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to
entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she
had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother
here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would
never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her
to play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory
the music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches,
beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never
wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such
music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive,
and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the other
garden--the one in Parsifal."

She closed the instrument.

"Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.

Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There
George was. He had crept in without interrupting her.

"Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without
a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the
Parsifal, and anything else that he liked.

"Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps
implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know
what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the
Flower Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped.

"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment.

"Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote you
have a men's four."

"All right."

"Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." He
never realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to make
up a fourth.

"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say's
Emerson."

George corrected him: "I am not bad."

One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play," said
Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing
George, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better not
play. Much better not."

Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she would
play. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" But
Sunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion.

"Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fall
back on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your
frock."

Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept it
without hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance in
the afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil was
sneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everything
up before she married him.

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennis
seemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sit
at the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared to
her the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by his
anxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs at
Santa Croce because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of that
obscure Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said to
her: "I shall want to live, I tell you." He wanted to live now, to win
at tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun which had
begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win.

Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above its
radiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs,
if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be forgetting her
Italy, but she was noticing more things in her England. One could play
a new game with the view, and try to find in its innumerable folds some
town or village that would do for Florence. Ah, how beautiful the Weald
looked!

But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in a lucid critical mood,
and would not sympathize with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance
all through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so bad
that he was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll round
the precincts of the court and call out: "I say, listen to this, Lucy.
Three split infinitives."

"Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finished
their set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, and
really everyone must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to
hunt for a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced.

"The scene is laid in Florence."

"What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all your
energy." She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a point
of being pleasant to him.

He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You--and are
you tired?"

"Of course I'm not!"

"Do you mind being beaten?"

She was going to answer, "No," when it struck her that she did mind,
so she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see you're such
a splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in my
eyes."

"I never said I was."

"Why, you did!"

"You didn't attend."

"You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We all
exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."

"'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, with an upward note.

Lucy recollected herself.

"'Sunset. Leonora was speeding--'"

Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?"

"Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray
the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy.
Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call it
now--'"

Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss
Lavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody
else's name."

"Who may Miss Lavish be?"

"Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"

Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.

George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer
Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."

"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bent
down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean
something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against
her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder the
novel's bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one
ought to read it as one's met her."

"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at her
inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one writes
for money in these days."

"Oh, Cecil--!"

"It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."

Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups and
downs in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had
dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer to
the clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black head
again. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting to
stroke it; the sensation was curious.

"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?"

"I never notice much difference in views."

"What do you mean?"

"Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is distance
and air."

"H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not.

"My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)--"says
that there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky straight over
our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies of
it."

"I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil, fingering the
novel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation.

"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of trees
and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other, like human
crowds--and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural,
for the same reason."

Lucy's lips parted.

"For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets
added to it--no one knows how--just as something has got added to those
hills."

He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs.

"What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your father
talk again. I'm so sorry he's not so well."

"No, he isn't well."

"There's an absurd account of a view in this book," said Cecil. "Also
that men fall into two classes--those who forget views and those who
remember them, even in small rooms."

"Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?"

"None. Why?"

"You spoke of 'us.'"

"My mother, I was meaning."

Cecil closed the novel with a bang.

"Oh, Cecil--how you made me jump!"

"I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."

"I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and
seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember."

Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred--he hadn't put on his coat after
tennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not
stopped him.

"Cecil, do read the thing about the view."

"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."

"No--read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things read
out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go."

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in
the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.

"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecil
must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention
wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had been
murdered in the sight of God and--according to her son--had seen as far as
Hindhead.

"Am I really to go?" asked George.

"No, of course not really," she answered.

"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't
bothering you."

Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.

She thought she had gone mad.

"Here--hand me the book."

She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too silly
to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to be
printed."

He took the book from her.

"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich
champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The
season was spring.'"

Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose,
for Cecil to read and for George to hear.

"'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence,
while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All
unobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'"

Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.

He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal
lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it.
He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'"

"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them, "there is another
much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.

"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.

She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She
thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery
it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had
been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved
passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.

"No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.

As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they
reached the upper lawn alone.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's a beautiful Sunday, and the Honeychurch women, plus Minnie Beebe and Charlotte, are on their way to church. Afterwards, they run in to the Emersons outside Cissie Villa. Lucy introduces Mrs. Honeychurch to Mr. Emerson and George. They discuss the predicament of the Miss Alans; Mr. Emerson feels bad, but George doesn't. George comments that there's only a limited amount of kindness in the world. Mrs. Honeychurch, somewhat surprisingly, agrees heartily with him. Lucy suspects that George and her mother will get along well. She also notes his affectionate attitude towards his father. Charlotte comes up, and predictably, is barely civil to the Emersons. George says he will try to make it to tennis at Windy Corner that afternoon. Lucy is overjoyed because George has obviously not told his father about their kiss in Italy. She's in a great mood when the women arrive back at Windy Corner, and her high spirits continue through a very pleasant lunch. She's especially nice to Cecil. After lunch, Lucy entertains by playing the piano. She stops when George arrives; Freddy, bored, suggests a game of tennis. Cecil refuses to play, so Lucy steps in. She enjoys being outside and running around, and particularly admires George's healthily competitive attitude. Post-tennis, George and Lucy have a conversation that's almost flirtatious. With him, she's sassy, natural, and charming. Cecil attempts to claim control of the conversation by reading aloud from a dreadful romance novel he's picked up somewhere. Lucy figures out that the author of the novel, one "Joseph Emery Prank," is actually Miss Lavish. Cecil is in a foul mood, since nobody's paying attention to him. Attempting to make him feel better, Lucy encourages him to read aloud from the book. Unfortunately, the scene he chooses is one of especial significance to Lucy and George: it replicates the scene of their kiss in the Italian countryside. Scandal! Horror! Lucy is appalled. George, however, is inspired. On the way back to the house, Cecil goes to retrieve the book, as he left it where they were sitting. George seizes this opportunity to kiss an astounded Lucy a second time.


prompt:
Chapter: But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now
better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the
world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by
deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I
must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared
for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and
our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that
we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must
stifle it.

She sent for Miss Bartlett.

The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a
contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim
was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the
views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her
old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with
the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she
was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances
of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he
had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of
falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only
from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped
for battle.

"Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin
arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?"

Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book,
nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart.

"There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know
about that?"

"Dear--?"

"Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside,
and Florence is in the distance."

"My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever."

"There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte,
Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking;
it must be you."

"Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.

"About that dreadful afternoon in February."

Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't
put that in her book?"

Lucy nodded.

"Not so that one could recognize it. Yes."

"Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of
mine."

"So you did tell?"

"I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of
conversation--"

"But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing?
Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell
mother?"

"I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence."

"Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing."

Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not
surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She
had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done
harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence.

Lucy stamped with irritation.

"Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson;
it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh!
Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were
walking up the garden."

Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets.

"What is to be done now? Can you tell me?"

"Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if
your prospects--"

"I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me
to tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source.' You knew that
you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable."

It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl,
despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me
in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"

Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was
a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood
with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary
rage.

"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget.
And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor
Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I
shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you.
What's wanted is a man with a whip."

Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip.

"Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go
maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?"

"I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all
events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a
bath."

"Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a
muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he
to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know."

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved
her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved
feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among
the laurels.

"You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome.
Can't you speak again to him now?"

"Willingly would I move heaven and earth--"

"I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you
speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all
happened because you broke your word."

"Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine."

Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself.

"Yes or no, please; yes or no."

"It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George
Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand.

"Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I
will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was
what her cousin had intended all along.

"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good
man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the
terrace.

"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"

They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the
rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning
to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The
Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her
blood before saying:

"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down
the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the
room, of course."

"Lucy, do you mind doing it?"

"How can you ask such a ridiculous question?"

"Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing
but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their
last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss
Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a
second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs.

"Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good."

George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the
dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:

"No--nothing to eat."

"You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr.
Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?"

"She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room."

"That's all right. You go away."

He went off singing.

Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly
frightened, took up a book and pretended to read.

She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't
have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house,
and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she
spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please."

"What--"

"No discussion."

"But I can't--"

She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse."

"You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--"you don't
mean that you are going to marry that man?"

The line was unexpected.

She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are
merely ridiculous," she said quietly.

Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's
only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He
should know no one intimately, least of all a woman."

It was a new light on Cecil's character.

"Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?"

"I can scarcely discuss--"

"No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as
they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to
people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's
shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must
deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a
different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first
in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced
the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it
is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all
over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that
he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and
teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to
settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't
let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand
years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's
charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly;
and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own.
So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been
the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not 'therefore I kissed you,'
because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more
self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened
you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have
told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But
therefore--therefore I settled to fight him."

Lucy thought of a very good remark.

"You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for
suggesting that you have caught the habit."

And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He said:

"Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same kind of
brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies very deep, and
men and women must fight it together before they shall enter the garden.
But I do love you surely in a better way than he does." He thought.
"Yes--really in a better way. I want you to have your own thoughts even
when I hold you in my arms." He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, be
quick--there's no time for us to talk now--come to me as you came in the
spring, and afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared
for you since that man died. I cannot live without you, 'No good,' I
thought; 'she is marrying someone else'; but I meet you again when all
the world is glorious water and sun. As you came through the wood I
saw that nothing else mattered. I called. I wanted to live and have my
chance of joy."

"And Mr. Vyse?" said Lucy, who kept commendably calm. "Does he not
matter? That I love Cecil and shall be his wife shortly? A detail of no
importance, I suppose?"

But he stretched his arms over the table towards her.

"May I ask what you intend to gain by this exhibition?"

He said: "It is our last chance. I shall do all that I can." And as
if he had done all else, he turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat like some
portent against the skies of the evening. "You wouldn't stop us this
second time if you understood," he said. "I have been into the dark, and
I am going back into it, unless you will try to understand."

Her long, narrow head drove backwards and forwards, as though
demolishing some invisible obstacle. She did not answer.

"It is being young," he said quietly, picking up his racquet from the
floor and preparing to go. "It is being certain that Lucy cares for me
really. It is that love and youth matter intellectually."

In silence the two women watched him. His last remark, they knew, was
nonsense, but was he going after it or not? Would not he, the cad,
the charlatan, attempt a more dramatic finish? No. He was apparently
content. He left them, carefully closing the front door; and when they
looked through the hall window, they saw him go up the drive and begin
to climb the slopes of withered fern behind the house. Their tongues
were loosed, and they burst into stealthy rejoicings.

"Oh, Lucia--come back here--oh, what an awful man!"

Lucy had no reaction--at least, not yet. "Well, he amuses me," she
said. "Either I'm mad, or else he is, and I'm inclined to think it's the
latter. One more fuss through with you, Charlotte. Many thanks. I think,
though, that this is the last. My admirer will hardly trouble me again."

And Miss Bartlett, too, essayed the roguish:

"Well, it isn't everyone who could boast such a conquest, dearest, is
it? Oh, one oughtn't to laugh, really. It might have been very serious.
But you were so sensible and brave--so unlike the girls of my day."

"Let's go down to them."

But, once in the open air, she paused. Some emotion--pity, terror, love,
but the emotion was strong--seized her, and she was aware of autumn.
Summer was ending, and the evening brought her odours of decay, the
more pathetic because they were reminiscent of spring. That something or
other mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently agitated, danced past
her, while other leaves lay motionless. That the earth was hastening to
re-enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees over Windy Corner?

"Hullo, Lucy! There's still light enough for another set, if you two'll
hurry."

"Mr. Emerson has had to go."

"What a nuisance! That spoils the four. I say, Cecil, do play, do,
there's a good chap. It's Floyd's last day. Do play tennis with us, just
this once."

Cecil's voice came: "My dear Freddy, I am no athlete. As you well
remarked this very morning, 'There are some chaps who are no good for
anything but books'; I plead guilty to being such a chap, and will not
inflict myself on you."

The scales fell from Lucy's eyes. How had she stood Cecil for a moment?
He was absolutely intolerable, and the same evening she broke off her
engagement.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Lucy realizes that Charlotte told Miss Lavish about the kiss, and confronts her cousin about it. Charlotte, embarrassed and upset, admits that she did. Lucy tells her about Kiss #2, then asks Charlotte for help talking to George. This time, though, Charlotte lamely backs out - feeling helpless and exposed, she asks Lucy to do it herself. George comes in soon enough, and though Lucy attempts to send him away, he stays. Impassioned, he clearly outlines all of the reasons Lucy can't marry Cecil . George ends by declaring his love for Lucy, which, he's certain, is "better" and more sincere than Cecil's love for her. He even appeals to Charlotte for assistance, and is met with silence. Thus rejected, he leaves. Lucy and Charlotte give the situation a short debriefing, then attempt to go about their business. Lucy, however, is plagued by what George said about Cecil. She realizes that she's been blind all along, and breaks off her engagement.