day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.

“Where aren't they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. “I tell you I'm getting fairly sick.”

“For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.

Freddy did not move or reply.

“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her