she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience."
"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.
"No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."
"Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know."
Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.
"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?"
The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:
"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."
"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do not like the Emersons. They are not nice."
Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly
