"I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with
Cecil."
Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said:
"Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss
me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment
that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining
sun were perfect.
So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy
Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged
hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of
oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At a11
events, they were not his own.
Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they
drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were
hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy
said:
"Lucy, what's Emerson like?"
"I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass
for a reply.
"Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?"
"Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.
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