“He told us another day that views are really crowds—crowds of trees and houses and hills—and are bound to resemble each other, like human crowds—and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural, for the same reason.” Lucy’s lips parted. “For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets added to it—no one knows how—just as something has got added to those hills.” He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs. “What a splendid idea!” she murmured. “I shall enjoy hearing your father talk again. I’m so sorry he’s not so well.” “No, he isn’t well.” “There’s an absurd account of a view in this book,” said Cecil. “Also that men fall into two classes—those who forget views and those who remember them, even in small rooms.” “Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?” “None. Why?” “You spoke of ‘us.’” “My mother, I was meaning.” Cecil closed the novel with a bang. “Oh, Cecil—how you made me jump!” “I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer.” “I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember.” Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred—he hadn’t put on his coat after tennis—he didn’t do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped him. “Cecil, do read the thing about the view.” “Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us.” “No—read away. I think nothing’s funnier than to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go.” This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again. “Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls.” She opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention wandered to George’s mother, who—according to Mr. Eager—had been murdered in the sight of God and—according to her son—had seen as far as Hindhead. “Am I really to go?” asked George. “No, of course not really,” she answered. “Chapter two,” said Cecil, yawning. “Find me chapter two, if it isn’t bothering you.” Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences. She thought she had gone mad. “Here—hand me the book.” She heard her voice saying: “It isn’t worth reading—it’s too silly to read—I never saw such rubbish—it oughtn’t to be allowed to be printed.” He took the book from her. “‘Leonora,’” he read, “‘sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season was spring.’” Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for George to hear. “‘A golden haze,’” he read. He read: “‘Afar off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved Antonio stole up behind her—’” Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.