Lucy, who was
in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet
which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.
Cecil entered.
Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once
described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and
refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of
the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the
usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who
guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well
endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of
a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness,
and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism.
A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies
fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy,
who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed
to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap.
Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved
towards her young acquaintance.
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