Not thus had
she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too
much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to
himself when she returned.
When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse
paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party
with her son. Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality,
like many another's, had been swamped by London, for it needs a
strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her
fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many
cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she
was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to
speak, a filial crowd.
"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at
the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she
spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful."
"Her music always was wonderful."
"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most
excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean.
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