tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy—who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion—it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman.
More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair.
"No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage."
"Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired."
"Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips.
"But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?"
She was silent.
"Greece"—and she saw that he was thinking the word over—"Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought."
"Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point?
"I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope—it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?"
"No."
"I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."
