Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an
ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling
serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a
restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress
it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she
was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of
which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the
electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.

There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus."
Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming,
and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in
art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the
"Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos,
were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra
Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some
Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste
was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every
well-known name.

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty
seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it
was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought,
"is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come
across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch
disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter
peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the
Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now