"The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued.

"Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the
faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are
not innumerable."

"She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity.

"I quite agree. At present she has none."

"At present?"

"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss
Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so
wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will
be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will
break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have
her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be
good or bad."

Cecil found his companion interesting.

"And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?"

"Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where
she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer
Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in
the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she
wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that