Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt — if it was one — to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left — some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories.

Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.

“Too late to go out,”