Chapter 11: In Mrs. Vyse's Well-Appointed Flat
"Her music always was wonderful."
"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most
excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not
always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made."
"Italy has done it."
"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented
Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her
next January. She is one of us already."
"But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to
Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was
right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know,
mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring
them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to
Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to
London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke
off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At
all events, not for women."
"Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.
As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from
Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs.
Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting
upright with her hand on her cheek.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams."
The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly:
"You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you
more than ever. Dream of that."
Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand.
Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke,
snored. Darkness enveloped the flat.