“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.” “It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.” “Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.” “What name?” “Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.” “What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.” Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong. Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities. “Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?” “I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure. “I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.” “Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked. She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view. “I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?” “Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.” “_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy. “Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech. It’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.” “But has Cecil—” “Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel. Ahem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’” She got up from the grass. It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.