A Room With A View | Page 6

I acted for the best."
"You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a
few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would
have come of accepting."
"No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation."
"He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently:
"I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect
you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one --of saying exactly
what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you
would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an
obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I
find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth."
Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so
always hope that people will be nice."
"I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every
point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will
differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When
he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no
tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and

he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about
him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better
of it."
"Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?"
Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching
of the lips.
"And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?"
"I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice
creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's
mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist."
"Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have
accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and
suspicious?"
"Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that."
"But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?"
He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and
got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.
"Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared.
"Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do
hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the
evening, as well as all dinner-time."
"He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see
good in every one. No one would take him for a clergyman."
"My dear Lucia--"
"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen
generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man."
"Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she
will approve of Mr. Beebe."
"I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy."
"I think every one at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable
world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly
behind the times."
"Yes," said Lucy despondently.
There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval
was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy
Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not
determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss

Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am
afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion."
And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must
be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor."
Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been
smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be
allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began
to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the
gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health,
the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of
thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her
subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention
than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was
proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real
catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when
she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,
though one better than something else.
"But here you are as safe as