Chapter 8: Medieval
The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to
meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection
from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to
the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued
and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life
like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the
curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides
of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the
glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.
Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was
studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a
bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in
his chair and puffed and groaned, for the 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
Freddy did not move or reply.
"I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather
wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it
without undue supplication.
"Time they did."
"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."
"It's his third go, isn't it?"
"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."