Something had
enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so
perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form.
The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--
and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that
lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and
bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and
music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the
song is not distinguishable from the comic song.
She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch
changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a
word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the
fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded.
And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have
come at any other time.
"Go and dress, dear; you'll be late."
"All right, mother--"
"Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go."
She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window.
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