As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure. “Cecil!” “Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.” He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once. “I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing! Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.” “Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come! Come here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.” “What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.” “In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.” “But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously. “In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—” “Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—” He bore her down. “Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—” “No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.” He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!” Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.