On a wet afternoon Lucy opens the piano at the pension and leaves the room behind. Praise does not reach her. She does not notice Mr Emerson hunting for his son, or Charlotte hunting for Miss Lavish. Mr Beebe, sitting in the window, remembers a concert at Tunbridge Wells where she played Beethoven and the vicar called the piece perverse, because it disturbed people. Away from the stool she had been only a girl who liked concerts, her cousin, iced coffee, and meringues. When she stops, he says the line he has saved. If Miss Honeychurch ever lives as she plays, it will be very exciting for other people and for her. Lucy laughs. Someone once said the same to her mother, who hoped she would never live a duet. She had told her mother she liked her own playing better than anyone's. Her mother has never got over it.
Charlotte and Miss Lavish are out in the rain at the Torre del Gallo. Miss Alan comes in with Miss Lavish's cigarette-case and the story of a novel left in a grotto at Amalfi. The grotto fell into the sea while Miss Lavish went for ink, and she cannot remember what she wrote. She is starting another book, about modern Italy, and cannot begin until she has an idea. The talk then turns on the Emersons. Old Mr Emerson had spoken of Miss Pole's stomach. Miss Lavish liked the plain speaking, decided the two men were commercial travellers, and walked into the smoking-room to talk to them. Five minutes later she was back with a green baize board, playing patience. No one knows what was said. Lucy asks whether Mr Emerson is nice. Miss Alan has changed her mind since the scene at Mr Eager's lecture in Santa Croce, and when Mr Beebe mentions violets she will not have the Emersons called nice. Their places at dinner have already been moved. Lucy says she still thinks they are nice, though Charlotte refused one outing, politely, and Lucy hardly sees them now.
The rain thins and the galleries shut. Lucy says she will ride the circular tram, on the platform beside the driver. Mr Beebe and Miss Alan look grave. She agrees to a short walk on the street the tourists use. From the window Mr Beebe watches her leave and says she ought not to go at all, and she knows it. He puts it down to too much Beethoven.
