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The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other. The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern." "Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'll hear--the Emersons--" "I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--" "Eleanor!" "I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did." Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. "Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!"