ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge
in Scriptural reminiscences.

"Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her
hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure
that you will make our dear Lucy happy."

"I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the
ceiling.

"We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that
she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she
hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the
middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome?

"I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.

Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in
at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis.
Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took
him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!"

"Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother.

Lucy kissed her also.

"Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch
all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my
mother."