It was the old, old battle of the room with
the view.
George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and
was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--
I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the
house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but
his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods
after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might
suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her
upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a
truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when
George threw her photographs into the River Arno.
"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great
treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been
in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming
up this afternoon."
Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made
her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he
will.
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