" Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man
hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch
followed her, and they drove away.
Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence
escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she
had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she
greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the
horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not
told." Her brain expanded the melody: "He has not told his
father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He
did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her hand to her
cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he
has not told. He will not tell."
She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret
between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even
glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last
dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his
room.
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