Cecil nodded intelligently.

“Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.

“I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him.”

“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”

He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant.