“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed. “Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett. “Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square. But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless; the air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy; would not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant. Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London. This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough, ceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her. “The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.” They were talking about the Emersons. “How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett, fingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa. “Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.” “Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked. “He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.” He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh. “Oh, so he has a wife.”