settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not
show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear; you are too unselfish;
you don't assert yourself enough." She cleared her throat. "Now
don't be alarmed; this isn't a cold. It's the tiniest cough, and
I have had it three days. It's nothing to do with sitting here at
all."

There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of
five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager,
vanquished by the mackintosh square.

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the
carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a
bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with
the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.

"Dove?" said Lucy, after much anxious thought.

His face lit up. Of course he knew where, Not so far either. His
arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he
did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and
then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract
of knowledge.

More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for "clergyman"?

"Dove buoni uomini?" said she at last.

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed
her his cigar.