Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was
studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a
bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in
his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the
print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother,
who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what
she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and
part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the
carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.
"Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's
brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."
"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs.
Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it
literally.
Freddy did not move or reply.
"I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather
wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it
without undue supplication.
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