The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible
whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss,
not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked
Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered
"the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had
no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not
have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so
cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt
at her asking him
"The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of
course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He
is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern."
"Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush!
They'll hear--the Emersons--"
"I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--"
"Eleanor!"
"I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear,
and they wouldn't mind if they did."
Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.
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