of victory. He was glad that she only played the first movement,
for he could have paid no attention to the winding intricacies of
the measures of nine-sixteen. The audience clapped, no less
respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started the stamping; it was all
that one could do.

"Who is she?" he asked the vicar afterwards.

"Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice
of a piece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in
his appeal that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like
that, which, if anything, disturbs."

"Introduce me."

"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the
praises of your sermon."

"My sermon?" cried Mr. Beebe. "Why ever did she listen to it?"

When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,
disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a
quantity of dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face.
She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin,
she loved iced coffee and meringues. He did not doubt that she
loved his sermon also. But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made
a remark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy herself when she
closed the little piano and moved dreamily towards him:

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be