The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly.
Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by
saying:

"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan,
after that business of the violets."

"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things
get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot
forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.
Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite
changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice."

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to
introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had
failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to
them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly
hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding,
were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation,
would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had
given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he
gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly
concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their
own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows
and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be
championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After
all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension
sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his
parishioner.