The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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