described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and
refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of
the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the
usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who
guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well
endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of
a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness,
and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism.
A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies
fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy,
who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed
to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap.

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved
towards her young acquaintance.

"Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--"oh, Cecil, do tell me!"

"I promessi sposi," said he.

They stared at him anxiously.

"She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in
English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more
human.

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a
hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also
knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so
connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great