People pretended he was vulgar, but
he certainly wasn't that."
"Poor old man! What was his name?"
"Harris," said Lucy glibly.
"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said
her mother.
Cecil nodded intelligently.
"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.
"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I
hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."
"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll
blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you
and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."
He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in
Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see
the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to
her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and
charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant
is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows
that she is alive.
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