hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.” 

 “He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.” 

 “My dear Lucia—” 

 “Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.” 

 “Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.” 

 “I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.” 

 “I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.” 

 “Yes,” said Lucy despondently. 

 There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.” 

 And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.” 

 Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. 

 “But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.” 

 “Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread 

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