“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,” with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. “I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?” “I tore the thing up.” “Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?” “Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.” “Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune with the meat.” Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. “So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. “And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.” It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs. “Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.” “Nonsense! It can.” “If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.” “Minnie can sleep with you.” “I won’t have her.” “Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.” “Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. “It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties, but it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.” Alas! “The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.” “No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”