British -- Italy -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Florence (Italy) -- Fiction; Humorous stories; Young women -- Fiction
“She is playing again,” he said to Miss Bartlett.
“Lucy can always play,” was the acid reply.
“One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently
much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The
marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she
could wind herself up to speak.”
Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion.
He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at
Florence, “she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of
meaning.” But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He
assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with
her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns.
She opened the discussion with: “We had much better let the matter
drop.”
“I wonder.”
“It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in
Summer Street. It would be _death_ to gossip about Mr. Vyse’s dismissal
at the present moment.”
Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word—surely too
strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: “Of course, Miss
Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she
chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind.”
“I know,” said Miss Bartlett civilly. “Yet Freddy ought not to have
told even you. One cannot be too careful.”
“Quite so.”
“I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend,
and—”
“Exactly.” He was used to these nervous old maids and to the
exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a
web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is
the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr.
Beebe, saying cheerfully: “Have you heard from any Bertolini people
lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of
that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been
working into one another’s lives. Two, three, four, six of us—no,
eight; I had forgotten the Emersons—have kept more or less in touch. We
must really give the Signora a testimonial.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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