"Poor Charlotte will be sopped," was Lucy's reply.

The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return
cold, tired, hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy
Baedeker, and a tickling cough in her throat. On another day,
when the whole world was singing and the air ran into the mouth.
like wine, she would refuse to stir from the drawing-room, saying
that she was an old thing, and no fit companion for a hearty
girl.

"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the
true Italy in the wet I believe."

"Miss Lavish is so original," murmured Lucy. This was a stock
remark, the supreme achievement of the Pension Bertolini in the
way of definition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his
doubts, but they would have been put down to clerical narrowness.
For that, and for other reasons, he held his peace.

"Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss
Lavish is writing a book?"

"They do say so."

"What is it about?"

"It will be a novel," replied Mr. Beebe, "dealing with modern
Italy. Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan,
who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know."