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QUEEN LUCIA (Part 3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Georgie was very busily engaged during the first weeks of December on a water-colour sketch of Olga sitting at her piano and singing. The difficulty of it was such that at times he almost despaired of accomplishing it, for the problem of how to draw her face and her mouth wide open and yet retain the likeness seemed almost insoluble. Often he sat in front of his own looking-glass with his mouth open, and diligently drew his own face, in order to arrive at the principles of the changes of line which took place. Certainly the shape of a person’s face, when his mouth was wide open altered so completely that you would have thought him quite unrecognisable, however skilfully the artist reproduced his elongated countenance, and yet Georgie could easily recognise that face in the glass as his. Forehead, eyes and cheek-bones alone retained their wonted aspect; even the nose seemed to lengthen if you opened your mouth very wide…. Then how again was he to indicate that she was singing and not yawning, or preparing for a sneeze? His most successful sketch at present looked precisely as if she was yawning, and made Georgie’s jaws long to yawn too. Perhaps the shape of the mouth in the two positions was really the same, and it was only the sound that led you to suppose that an open-mouthed person was singing. But perhaps the piano would supply the necessary suggestion; Olga would not sit down at the piano merely to yawn or sneeze, for she could do that anywhere.

Then a brilliant idea struck him: he would introduce a shaded lamp standing on the piano, and then her face would be in red shadow. Naturally this entailed fresh problems with regard to light, but light seemed to present less difficulty than likeness. Besides he could make her dress, and the keys of the piano very like indeed. But when he came to painting again he despaired. There must be red shadow on her face and yellow light on her hands, and on her green dress, and presently the whole thing looked not so much like Olga singing by lamp-light, as a lobster-salad spread out in the sunlight. The more he painted, the more vividly did the lettuce leaves and the dressing and the lobster emerge from the paper. So he took away the lamp, and shut Olga’s mouth, and there she would be at her piano just going to sing.

These artistic agonies had rewards which more than compensated for them, for regularly now he took his drawing-board and his paint-box across to her house, and sat with her while she practised. There were none of love’s lilies low or yawning York now, for she was very busy learning her part in Lucretia, spending a solid two hours at it every morning, and Georgie began to perceive what sort of work it implied to produce the spontaneous ease with which Brunnhilde hailed the sun. More astounding even was the fact that this mere learning of notes was but the preliminary to what she called “real work.” And when she had got through the mere mechanical part of it, she would have to study. Then when her practice was over, she would indulgently sit with her head in profile against a dark background, and Georgie would suck one end of his brush and bite the other, and wonder whether he would ever produce anything which he could dare to offer her. By daily poring on her face, he grew not to admire only but to adore its youth and beauty, by daily contact with her he began to see how fresh and how lovely was the mind that illuminated it.

“Georgie, I’m going to scold you,” she said one day, as she took up her place against the black panel. “You’re a selfish little brute. You think of nothing but your own amusement. Did that ever strike you?”

Georgie gasped with surprise. Here was he spending the whole of every morning trying to do something which would be a worthy Christmas present for her (to say nothing of the hours he had spent with his mouth open in front of his glass, and the cost of the beautiful frame which he had ordered) and yet he was supposed to be only thinking about himself. Of course Olga did not know that the picture was to be hers….

“How tarsome you are!” he said. “You’re always finding fault with me. Explain.”

“Well, you’re neglecting your old friends for your new one,” she said. “My dear, you should never drop an old friend. For instance, when did you last play duets with Mrs Lucas?”

“Oh, not so very long ago,” said Georgie.

“Quite long enough, I am sure. But I don’t actually mean sitting down and thumping the piano with her. When did you last think about her and make plans for her and talk baby-language?”

“Who told you I ever did?” asked Georgie.

“Gracious! How can I possibly remember that sort of thing? I should say at a guess that everybody told me. Now poor Mrs Lucas is feeling out of it, and neglected and dethroned. It’s all on my mind rather, and I’m talking to you about it, because it’s largely your fault. Now we’re talking quite frankly, so don’t fence, and say it’s mine. I know exactly what you mean, but you are perfectly wrong. Primarily, it’s Mrs Lucas’s fault, because she’s quite the stupidest woman I ever saw, but it’s partly your fault too.”

She turned round.

“Come, Georgie, let’s have it out,” she said. “I’m perfectly powerless to do anything, because she detests me, and you’ve got to help her and help me, and drop your selfishness. Before I came here, she used to run you all, and give you treats like going to her tableaux and listening to her stupid old Moonlight Sonata, and talking seven words of Italian. And then I came along with no earthly intention except to enjoy my holidays, and she got it into her head that I was trying to run the place instead of her. Isn’t that so? Just say ‘yes.’”

“Yes,” said Georgie.

“Well, that puts me in an odious position and a helpless position. I did my best to be nice to her; I went to her house until she ceased to ask me, and asked her here for everything that I thought would amuse her, until she ceased to come. I took no notice of her rudeness which was remarkable, or of her absurd patronising airs, which didn’t hurt me in the smallest degree. But Georgie, she would continue to make such a dreadful ass of herself, and think it was my fault. Was it my fault that she didn’t know the Spanish quartette when she heard it, or that she didn’t know a word of Italian, when she pretended she did, or that the other day (it was the last time I saw her, when you played your Debussy to us at Aunt Jane’s) she talked to me about inverted fifths?”

Olga suddenly burst out laughing, and Georgie assumed the Riseholme face of intense curiosity.

“You must tell me all about that,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the rest which you don’t know.”

Olga succumbed too, and began to talk in Aunt Jane’s voice, for she had adopted her as an aunt.

“Well, it was last Monday week” she said “or was it Sunday? No it couldn’t have been Sunday because I don’t have anybody to tea that day, as Elizabeth goes over to Jacob’s and spends the afternoon with Atkinson, or the other way about, which doesn’t signify, as the point is that Elizabeth should be free. So it was Monday, and Aunt Jane—it’s me talking again—had the tea-party at which you played Poisson d’Or. And when it was finished, Mrs Lucas gave a great sigh, and said ‘Poor Georgino! Wasting his time over that rubbish,’ though she knew quite well that I had given it to you. And so I said, ‘Would you call it rubbish, do you think?’ and she said ‘Quite. Every rule of music is violated. Don’t those inverted fifths make you wince, Miss Bracely?’”

Olga laughed again, and spoke in her own voice.

“Oh, Georgie, she is an ass,” she said. “What she meant I suppose was consecutive fifths; you can’t invert a fifth. So I said (I really meant it as a joke), ‘Of course there is that, but you must forgive Debussy that for the sake of that wonderful passage of submerged tenths!’ And she took it quite gravely and shook her head, and said she was afraid she was a purist. What happened next? That’s all I know.”

“Directly afterwards,” said Georgie, “she brought the music to me, and asked me to show her where the passage of tenths came. I didn’t know, but I found some tenths, and she brightened up and said ‘Yes, it is true; those submerged tenths are very impressive.’ Then I suggested that the submerged tenth was not a musical expression, but referred to a section of the population. On which she said no more, but when she went away she asked me to send her some book on ‘Harmony.’ I daresay she is looking for the submerged tenth still.”

Olga lit a cigarette and became grave again.

“Well, it can’t go on,” she said. “We can’t have the poor thing feeling angry and out of it. Then there was Mrs Quantock absolutely refusing to let her see the Princess.”

“That was her own fault,” said Georgie. “It was because she was so greedy about the Guru.”

“That makes it all the bitterer. And I can’t do anything, because she blames me for it all. I would ask her and her Peppino here every night, and listen to her dreary tunes every evening, and let her have it all her own way, if it would do any good. But things have gone too far; she wouldn’t come. It has all happened without my noticing it. I never added it all up as it went along, and I hate it.”

Georgie thought of the spiritualistic truths.

“If you’re an incarnation,” he said in a sudden glow of admiration, “you’re the incarnation of an angel. How you can forgive her odious manners to you—”

“My dear, shut up,” said Olga. “We’ve got to do something. Now how would it be if you gave a nice party on Christmas night, and asked her at once? Ask her to help you in getting it up; make it clear she’s going to run it.”

“All right. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Certainly I will not. Perhaps I will come in after dinner with Goosie or some one of that sort. Don’t you see it would spoil it all if I were at dinner? You must rather pointedly leave me out. Give her a nice expensive refined Christmas present too. You might give her that picture you’re doing of me—No, I suppose she wouldn’t like that. But just comfort her and make her feel you can’t get on without her. You’ve been her right hand all these years. Make her give her tableaux again. And then I think you must ask me in afterwards. I long to see her and Peppino as Brunnhilde and Siegfried. Just attend to her, Georgie, and buck her up. Promise me you will. And do it as if your heart was in it, otherwise it’s no good.”

Georgie began packing up his paint-box. This was not the plan he had hoped for on Christmas Day, but if Olga wished this, it had got to be done.

“Well, I’ll do my best,” he said.

“Thanks ever so much. You’re a darling. And how is your planchette getting on? I’ve been lazy about my crystal, but I get so tired of my own nose.”

“Planchette would write nothing but a few names,” said Georgie, omitting the fact that Olga’s was the most frequent. “I think I shall drop it.”

This was but reasonable, for since Riseholme had some new and absorbing excitement every few weeks, to say nothing of the current excitement of daily life, it followed that even the most thrilling pursuits could not hold the stage for very long. Still, the interest in spiritualism had died down with the rapidity of the seed on stony ground.

“Even Mrs Quantock seems to have cooled,” said Olga. “She and her husband were here last night, and they looked rather bored when I suggested table-turning. I wonder if anything has happened to put her off it?”

“What do you think could have?” asked Georgie with Riseholme alacrity.

“Georgie, do you really believe in the Princess and Pocky?” she asked.

Georgie looked round to see that there was no one within hearing.

“I did at the time,” he said, “at least I think I did. But it seems less likely now. Who was the Princess anyway? Why didn’t we ever hear of her before? I believe Mrs Quantock met her in the train or something.”

“So do I,” said Olga. “But not a word. It makes Aunt Jane and Uncle Jacob completely happy to believe in it all. Their lines of life are enormous, and they won’t die till they’re over a hundred. Now go and see Mrs Lucas, and if she doesn’t ask you to lunch you can come back here.”

Georgie put down his picture and painting-apparatus at his house, and went on to Lucia’s, definitely conscious that though he did not want to have her to dinner on Christmas Day, or go back to his duets and his A. D. C. duties, there was a spice and savour in so doing that came entirely from the fact that Olga wished him to, that by this service he was pleasing her. In itself it was distasteful, in itself it tended to cut him off from her, if he had to devote his time to Lucia, but he still delighted in doing it.

“I believe I am falling in love with her this time,” said Georgie to himself…. “She’s wonderful; she’s big; she’s—-”

At that moment his thoughts were violently diverted, for Robert Quantock came out of his house in a tremendous hurry, merely scowling at Georgie, and positively trotted across the Green in the direction of the news-agent’s. Instantly Georgie recollected that he had seen him there already this morning before his visit to Olga, buying a new twopenny paper in a yellow cover called “Todd’s News.” They had had a few words of genial conversation, and what could have happened in the last two hours that made Robert merely gnash his teeth at Georgie now, and make a second visit to the paper-shop?

It was impossible not to linger a moment and see what Robert did when he got to the paper-shop, and with the aid of his spectacles Georgie perceived that he presently loaded himself with a whole packet of papers in yellow covers, presumably “Todd’s News.” Flesh and blood could not resist the cravings of curiosity, and making a detour, so as to avoid being gnashed at again by Robert, who was coming rapidly back in his direction, he strolled round to the paper-shop and asked for a copy of “Todd’s News.” Instantly the bright December morning grew dark with mystery, for the proprietor told him that Mr Quantock has bought every copy he possessed of it. No further information could be obtained, except that he had bought a copy of every other daily paper as well.

Georgie could make nothing of it whatever, and having observed Robert hurry into his house again, went on his errand to Lucia. Had he seen what Robert did when he got home, it is doubtful if he could have avoided breaking into the house and snatching a copy of “Todd’s News” from him….

Robert went to his study, and locked the door. He drew out from under his blotting-pad the first copy of “Todd’s News” that he bought earlier in the morning, and put it with the rest. Then with a furrowed brow he turned to the police-reports in the “Times” and after looking at them laid the paper down. He did the same to the “Daily Telegraph,” the “Daily Mail,” the “Morning Post,” the “Daily Chronicle.” Finally (this was the last of the daily papers) he perused “The Daily Mirror,” tore it in shreds, and said “Damn.”

He sat for a while in thought, trying to recollect if anybody in Riseholme except Colonel Boucher took in the “Daily Mirror.” But he felt morally certain that no one did, and letting himself out of his study, and again locking the door after him, he went into the street, and saw at a glance that the Colonel was employed in whirling Mrs Weston round the Green. Instead of joining them he hurried to the Colonel’s house and, for there was no time for half-measures, fixed Atkinson with his eye, and said he would like to write a note to Colonel Boucher. He was shown into his sitting-room, and saw the “Daily Mirror” lying open on the table. As soon as he was left alone, he stuffed it into his pocket, told Atkinson he would speak to the Colonel instead, and intercepted the path of the bath-chair. He was nearly run over, but stood his ground, and in a perfectly firm voice asked the Colonel if there was any news in the morning papers. With the Colonel’s decided negative ringing joyfully in his ears, he went home again, and locked himself for the second time into his study.

There is a luxury, when some fell danger has been averted by promptness and presence of mind, in living through the moments of that danger again, and Robert opened “Todd’s News,” for that gave the fuller account, and read over the paragraph in the police news headed “Bogus Russian Princess.” But now he gloated over the lines which had made him shudder before when he read how Marie Lowenstein, of 15, Gerald Street, Charing Cross Road, calling herself Princess Popoffski, had been brought up at the Bow Street Police Court for fraudulently professing to tell fortunes and produce materialised spirits at a seance in her flat. Sordid details followed: a detective who had been there seized an apparition by the throat, and turned on the electric light. It was the woman Popoffski’s throat that he held, and her secretary, Hezekiah Schwarz, was discovered under the table detaching an electric hammer. A fine was inflicted….

A moment’s mental debate was sufficient to determine Robert not to tell his wife. It was true that she had produced Popoffski, but then he had praised and applauded her for that; he, no less than she, had been convinced of Popoffski’s integrity, high rank and marvellous psychic powers, and together they had soared to a pinnacle of unexampled greatness in the Riseholme world. Besides poor Daisy would be simply flattened out if she knew that Popoffski was no better than the Guru. He glanced at the pile of papers, and at the fire place….

It had been a cold morning, clear and frosty, and a good blaze prospered in the grate. Out of each copy, of “Todd’s News” he tore the page on which were printed the police reports, and fed the fire with them. Page after page he put upon it; never had so much paper been devoted to one grate. Up the chimney they flew in sheets of flame; sometimes he was afraid he had set it on fire, and he had to pause, shielding his scorched face, until the hollow rumbling had died down. With the page from two copies of the “Daily Mirror” the holocaust was over, and he unlocked the door again. No one in Riseholme knew but he, and no one should ever know. Riseholme had been electrified by spiritualism, and even now the seances had been cheap at the price.

The debris of all these papers he caused to be removed by the housemaid, and this was hardly done when his wife came in from the Green.

“I thought there was a chimney on fire, Robert,” she said. “You would have liked it to be the kitchen-chimney as you said the other day.”

“Stuff and nonsense, my dear,” said he. “Lunch-time, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Ah, there’s the post. None for me, and two for you.”

She looked at him narrowly as he took his letters. Perhaps their subconscious minds (according to her dear friend’s theory) held communication, but only the faintest unintelligible ripple of that appeared on the surface.

“I haven’t heard from my Princess since she went away,” she remarked.

Robert gave a slight start; he was a little off his guard from the reaction after his anxiety.

“Indeed!” he said. “Have you written to her?”

She appeared to try to remember.

“Well, I really don’t believe I have,” she said. “That is remiss of me. I must send her a long budget one of these days.”

This time he looked narrowly at her. Had she a secret, he wondered, as well as he? What could it be?…

Georgie found his mission none too easy, and it was only the thought that it was a labour of love, or something very like it, that enabled him to persevere. Even then for the first few minutes he thought it might prove love’s labour’s lost, so bright and unreal was Lucia.

He had half crossed Shakespeare’s garden, and had clearly seen her standing at the window of the music-room, when she stole away, and next moment the strains of some slow movement, played very loud, drowned the bell on the mermaid’s tail so completely that he wondered whether it had rung at all. As a matter of fact, Lucia and Peppino were in the midst of a most serious conversation when Georgie came through the gate, which was concerned with deciding what was to be done. A party at The Hurst sometime during Christmas week was as regular as the festival itself, but this year everything was so unusual. Who were to be asked in the first place? Certainly not Mrs Weston, for she had talked Italian to Lucia in a manner impossible to misinterpret, and probably, so said Lucia with great acidity, she would be playing children’s games with her promesso. It was equally impossible to ask Miss Bracely and her husband, for relations were already severed on account of the Spanish quartette and Signer Cortese, and as for the Quantocks, did Peppino expect Lucia to ask Mrs Quantock again ever? Then there was Georgie, who had become so different and strange, and … Well here was Georgie. Hastily she sat down at the piano, and Peppino closed his eyes for the slow movement.

The opening of the door was lost on Lucia, and Peppino’s eyes were closed. Consequently Georgie sat down on the nearest chair, and waited. At the end Peppino sighed, and he sighed too.

“Who is that?” said Lucia sharply. “Why is it you, Georgie? What a stranger. Aren’t you? Any news?”

This was all delivered in the coldest of tones, and Lucia snatched a morsel of wax off Eb.

“I’ve heard none,” said Georgie in great discomfort. “I just dropped in.”

Lucia fixed Peppino with a glance. If she had shouted at the top of her voice she could not have conveyed more unmistakably that she was going to manage this situation.

“Ah, that is very pleasant,” she said. “Peppino and I have been so busy lately that we have seen nobody. We are quite country-cousins, and so the town-mouse must spare us a little cheese. How is dear Miss Bracely now?”

“Very well,” said Georgie. “I saw her this morning.”

Lucia gave a sigh of relief.

“That is good,” she said. “Peppino, do you hear? Miss Bracely is quite well. Not overtired with practising that new opera? Lucy Grecian, was it? Oh, how silly I am! Lucretia; that was it, by that extraordinary Neapolitan. Yes. And what next? Our good Mrs Weston, now! Still thinking about her nice young man? Making orange-flower wreaths, and choosing bridesmaids? How naughty I am! Yes. And then dear Daisy? How is she? Still entertaining princesses? I look in the Court Circular every morning to see if Princess Pop—Pop—Popoff isn’t it? if Princess Popoff has popped off to see her cousin the Czar again. Dear me!”

The amount of malice, envy and all uncharitableness which Lucia managed to put into this quite unrehearsed speech was positively amazing. She had not thought it over beforehand for a moment; it came out with the august spontaneity of lightning leaping from a cloud. Not till that moment had Georgie guessed at a tithe of all that Olga had felt so certain about, and a double emotion took hold of him. He was immensely sorry for Lucia, never having conjectured how she must have suffered before she attained to so superb a sourness, and he adored the intuition that had guessed it and wanted to sweeten it.

The outburst was not quite over yet, though Lucia felt distinctly better.

“And you, Georgie,” she said, “though I’m sure we are such strangers that I ought to call you Mr Pillson, what have you been doing? Playing Miss Bracely’s accompaniments, and sewing wedding-dresses all day, and raising spooks all night? Yes.”

Lucia had caught this “Yes” from Lady Ambermere, having found it peculiarly obnoxious. You laid down a proposition, or asked a question, and then confirmed it yourself.

“And Mr Cortese,” she said, “is he still roaring out his marvellous English and Italian? Yes. What a full life you lead, Georgie. I suppose you have no time for your painting now.”

This was not a bow drawn at a venture, for she had seen Georgie come out of Old Place with his paint-box and drawing-board, but this direct attack on him did not lessen the power of the “sweet charity” which had sent him here. He blew the bugle to rally all the good-nature for which he was capable.

“No, I have been painting lately,” he said, “at least I have been trying to. I’m doing a little sketch of Miss Bracely at her piano, which I want to give her on Christmas Day. But it’s so difficult. I wish I had brought it round to ask your advice, but you would only have screamed with laughter at it. It’s a dreadful failure: much worse than those I gave you for your birthdays. Fancy your keeping them still in your lovely music-room. Send them to the pantry, and I’ll do something better for you next.”

Lucia, try as she might, could not help being rather touched by that. There they all were: “Golden Autumn Woodland,” “Bleak December,” “Yellow Daffodils,” and “Roses of Summer.”…

“Or have them blacked over by the boot-boy,” she said. “Take them down, Georgie, and let me send them to be blacked.”

This was much better: there was playfulness behind the sarcasm now, which peeped out from it. He made the most of that.

“We’ll do that presently,” he said. “Just now I want to engage you and Peppino to dine with me on Christmas Day. Now don’t be tarsome and say you’re engaged. But one can never tell with you.”

“A party?” asked Lucia suspiciously.

“Well, I thought we would have just one of our old evenings together again,” said Georgie, feeling himself remarkably clever. “We’ll have the Quantocks, shan’t we, and Colonel and Mrs Colonel, and you and Peppino, and me, and Mrs Rumbold? That’ll make eight, which is more than Foljambe likes, but she must lump it. Mr Rumbold is always singing carols all Christmas evening with the choir, and she will be alone.”

“Ah, those carols” said Lucia, wincing.

“I know: I will provide you with little wads of cotton-wool. Do come and we’ll have just a party of eight. I’ve asked no one yet and perhaps nobody will come. I want you and Peppino, and the rest may come or stop away. Do say you approve.”

Lucia could not yield at once. She had to press her fingers to her forehead.

“So kind of you, Georgie,” she said, “but I must think. Are we doing anything on Christmas night, carrissimo? Where’s your engagement-book? Go and consult it.”

This was a grand manoeuvre, for hardly had Peppino left the room when she started up with a little scream and ran after him.

“Me so stupid,” she cried. “Me put it in smoking-room, and poor caro will look for it ever so long. Back in minute, Georgino.”

Naturally this was perfectly clear to Georgie. She wanted to have a short private consultation with Peppino, and he waited rather hopefully for their return, for Peppino, he felt sure, was bored with this Achilles-attitude of sitting sulking in the tent. They came back wreathed in smiles, and instantly embarked on the question of what to do after dinner. No romps: certainly not, but why not the tableaux again? The question was still under debate when they went in to lunch. It was settled affirmatively during the macaroni, and Lucia said that they all wanted to work her to death, and so get rid of her. They had thought—she and Peppino—of having a little holiday on the Riviera, but anyhow they would put if off till after Christmas. Georgie’s mouth was full of crashing toast at the moment, and he could only shake his head. But as soon as the toast could be swallowed, he made the usual reply with great fervour.

Georgie was hardly at all complacent when he walked home afterwards, and thought how extremely good-natured he had been, for he could not but feel that this marvellous forbearance was a sort of mistletoe growth on him, quite foreign really to his nature. Never before had Lucia showed so shrewish and venomous a temper; he had not thought her capable of it. For the gracious queen, there was substituted a snarling fish-wife, but then as Georgie calmly pursued the pacific mission of comfort to which Olga had ordained him, how the fish-wife’s wrinkles had been smoothed out, and the asps withered from her tongue. Had his imagination ever pictured Lucia saying such things to him, it would have supplied him with no sequel but a complete severance of relations between them. Instead of that he had consulted her and truckled to her: truckled: yes, he had truckled, and he was astonished at himself. Why had he truckled? And the beautiful mouth and kindly eyes of Olga supplied the answer. Certainly he must drop in at once, and tell her the result of the mission. Perhaps she would reward him by calling him a darling again. Really he deserved that she should say something nice to him.

It was a day of surprises for Georgie. He found Olga at home, and recounted, without loving any of the substance, the sarcasms of Lucia, and his own amazing tact and forbearance. He did not comment, he just narrated the facts in the vivid Riseholme manner, and waited for his reward.

Olga looked at him a moment in silence: then she deliberately wiped her eyes.

“Oh, poor Mrs Lucas” she said. “She must have been miserable to have behaved like that! I am so sorry. Now what else can you do, Georgie, to make her feel better?”

“I think I’ve done everything that could have been required of me,” said Georgie. “It was all I could do to keep my temper at all. I will give my party at Christmas, because I promised you I would.”

“Oh, but it’s ten days to Christmas yet,” said Olga. “Can’t you paint her portrait, and give it her for a present. Oh, I think you could, playing the Moonlight-Sonata.”

Georgie felt terribly inclined to be offended and tell Olga that she was tired of him: or to be dignified and say he was unusually busy. Never had he shown such forbearance towards downright rudeness as he had shown to Lucia, and though he had shown that for Olga’s sake, she seemed to be without a single spark of gratitude, but continued to urge her request.

“Do paint a little picture of her,” she repeated. “She would love it, and make it young and interesting. Think over it, anyhow: perhaps you’ll think of something better than that. And now won’t you go and secure all your guests for Christmas at once?”

Georgie turned to leave the room, but just as he got to the door she spoke again:

“I think you’re a brick,” she said.

Somehow this undemonstrative expression of approval began to glow in Georgie’s heart as he walked home. Apparently she took it for granted that he was going to behave with all the perfect tact and good-temper that he had shown. It did not surprise her in the least, she had almost forgotten to indicate that she had noticed it at all. And that, as he thought about it, seemed a far deeper compliment than if she had told him how wonderful he was. She took it for granted, no more nor less, that he would be kind and pleasant, whatever Lucia said. He had not fallen short of her standard….

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Georgie’s Christmas party had just taken its seats at his round rosewood table without a cloth, and he hoped that Foljambe would be quick with the champagne, because there had been rather a long wait before dinner, owing to Lucia and Peppino being late, and conversation had been a little jerky. Lucia, as usual, had sailed into the room, without a word of apology, for she was accustomed to come last when she went out to dinner, and on her arrival dinner was always announced immediately. The few seconds that intervened were employed by her in saying just one kind word to everybody. Tonight, however, these gratifying utterances had not been received with the gratified responses to which she was accustomed: there was a different atmosphere abroad, and it was as if she were no more than one-eighth of the entire party…. But it would never do to hurry Foljambe, who was a little upset already by the fact of there being eight to dinner, which was two more than she approved of.

Lucia was on Georgie’s right, Mrs Colonel as she had decided to call herself, on his left. Next her was Peppino, then Mrs Quantock, then the Colonel, then Mrs Rumbold (who resembled a grey hungry mouse), and Mr Quantock completed the circle round to Lucia again. Everyone had a small bunch of violets in the napkin, but Lucia had the largest. She had also a footstool.

“Capital good soup,” remarked Mr Quantock. “Can’t get soup like this at home.”

There was dead silence. Why was there never a silence when Olga was there, wondered Georgie. It wasn’t because she talked, she somehow caused other people to talk.

“Tommy Luton hasn’t got measles,” said Mrs Weston. “I always said he hadn’t, though there are measles about. He came to work as usual this morning, and is going to sing in the carols tonight.”

She suddenly stopped.

Georgie gave an imploring glance at Foljambe, and looked at the champagne glasses. She took no notice. Lucia turned to Georgie, with an elbow on the table between her and Mr Quantock.

“And what news, Georgie?” she said. “Peppino and I have been so busy that we haven’t seen a soul all day. What have you been doing? Any planchette?”

She looked brightly at Mrs Quantock.

“Yes, dear Daisy, I needn’t ask you what you’ve been doing. Table-turning, I expect. I know how interested you are in psychical matters. I should be, too, if only I could be certain that I was not dealing with fraudulent people.”

Georgie felt inclined to give a hollow groan and sink under the table when this awful polemical rhetoric began. To his unbounded surprise Mrs Quantock answered most cordially.

“You are quite right, dear Lucia,” she said. “Would it not be terrible to find that a medium, some dear friend perhaps, whom one implicitly trusted, was exposed as fraudulent? One sees such exposures in the paper sometimes. I should be miserable if I thought I had ever sat with a medium who was not honest. They fine the wretches well, though, if they are caught, and they deserve it.”

Georgie observed, and couldn’t the least understand, a sudden blank expression cross Robert’s face. For the moment he looked as if he were dead but had been beautifully stuffed. But Georgie gave but a cursory thought to that, for the amazing supposition dawned on him that Lucia had not been polemical at all, but was burying instead of chopping with the hatchet. It was instantly confirmed, for Lucia took her elbow off the table, and turned to Robert.

“You and dear Daisy have been very lucky in your spiritualistic experiences,” she said. “I hear on all sides what a charming medium you had. Georgie quite lost his heart to her.”

“’Pon my word; she was delightful,” said Robert.

“Of course she was a dear friend of Daisy’s, but one has to be very careful when one hears of the dreadful exposures, as my wife said, that occur sometimes. Fancy finding that a medium whom you believed to be perfectly honest had yards and yards of muslin and a false nose or two concealed about her. It would sicken me of the whole business.”

A loud pop announced that Foljambe had allowed them all some champagne at last, but Georgie hardly heard it, for glancing up at Daisy Quantock, he observed that the same dead and stuffed look had come over her face which he had just now noticed on her husband’s countenance. Then they both looked up at each other with a glance that to him bristled with significance. An agonised questioning, an imploring petition for silence seemed to inspire it; it was as if each had made unwittingly some hopeless faux pas. Then they instantly looked away from each other again; their necks seemed to crack with the rapidity with which they turned them right and left, and they burst into torrents of speech to the grey hungry mouse and the Colonel respectively.

Georgie was utterly mystified: his Riseholme instinct told him that there was something below all this, but his Riseholme instinct could not supply the faintest clue as to what it was. Both of the Quantocks, it seemed clear, knew something perilous about the Princess, but surely if Daisy had read in the paper that the Princess had been exposed and fined, she would not have touched on so dangerous a subject. Then the curious incident about “Todd’s News” inevitably occurred to him, but that would not fit the case, since it was Robert and not Daisy who had bought that inexplicable number of the yellow print. And then Robert had hinted at the discovery of yards and yards of muslin and a false nose. Why had he done that unless he had discovered them, or unless …Georgie’s eyes grew round with the excitement of the chase … unless Robert had some other reason to suspect the integrity of the dear friend, and had said this at hap-hazard. In that case what was Robert’s reason for suspicion? Had he, not Daisy, read in the paper of some damaging disclosures, and had Daisy (also having reason to suspect the Princess) alluded to the damaging exposures in the paper by pure hap-hazard? Anyhow they had both looked dead and stuffed when the other alluded to mediumistic frauds, and both had said how lucky their own experiences had been. “Oh!”—Georgie almost said it aloud—What if Robert had seen a damaging exposure in “Todd’s News,” and therefore bought up every copy that was to be had? Then, indeed, he would look dead and stuffed, when Daisy alluded to damaging exposures in the paper. Had a stray copy escaped him, and did Daisy know? What did Robert know? Had they exquisite secrets from each other?

Lucia was being talked to across him by Mrs Weston, who had also pinned down the attention of Peppino on the other side of her. At that precise moment the flood of Mrs Quantock’s spate of conversation to the Colonel dried up, and Robert could find nothing more to say to the hungry mouse. Georgie in this backwater of his own thoughts was whirled into the current again. But before he sank he caught Mrs Quantock’s eye and put a question that arose from his exciting backwater.

“Have you heard from the Princess lately?” he asked.

Robert’s head went round with the same alacrity as he had turned it away.

“Oh, yes,” said she. “Two days ago was it, Robert?”

“I heard yesterday,” said Robert firmly.

Mrs Quantock looked at her husband with an eager encouraging earnestness.

“So you did!” she said. “I’m getting jealous. Interesting, dear?”

“Yes, dear, haw, haw,” said Robert, and again their eyes met.

This time Georgie had no doubts at all. They were playing the same game now: they smiled and smirked at each other. They had not been playing the same game before. Now they recognised that there was a conspiracy between them…. But he was host, his business for the moment was to make his guests comfortable, and not pry into their inmost bosoms. So before Mrs Weston realised that she had the whole table attending to her, he said:

“I shall get it out of Robert after dinner. And I’ll tell you, Mrs Quantock.”

“Before Atkinson came to the Colonel,” said Mrs Weston, going on precisely where she had left off, “and that was five years before Elizabeth came to me—let me see—was it five or was it four and a half?—four and a half we’ll say, he had another servant whose name was Ahab Crowe.”

“No!” said Georgie.

“Yes!” said Mrs Weston, hastily finishing her champagne, for she saw Foljambe coming near—“Yes, Ahab Crowe. He married, too, just like Atkinson is going to, and that’s an odd coincidence in itself. I tell the Colonel that if Ahab Crowe hadn’t married, he would be with him still, and who can say that he’d have fancied Elizabeth? And if he hadn’t, I don’t believe that the Colonel and I would ever have—well, I’ll leave that alone, and spare my blushes. But that’s not what I was saying. Whom do you think Ahab Crowe married? You can have ten guesses each, and you would never come right, for it can’t be a common name. It was Miss Jackdaw. Crowe: Jackdaw. I never heard anything like that, and if you ask the Colonel about it, he’ll confirm every word I’ve said. Boucher, Weston, why that’s quite commonplace in comparison, and I’m sure that’s an event enough for me.”

Lucia gave her silvery laugh.

“Dear Mrs Weston,” she said, “you must really tell me at once when the happy day will be. Peppino and I are thinking of going to the Riviera—”

Georgie broke in.

“You shan’t do anything of the kind,” he said. “What’s to happen to us? ’Oo very selfish, Lucia.”

The conversation broke up again into duets and trios, and Lucia could have a private conversation with her host. But half-an-hour ago, so Georgie reflected, they had all been walking round each other like dogs going on tiptoe with their tails very tightly curled, and growling gently to themselves, aware that a hasty snap, or the breach of the smallest observance of etiquette, might lead to a general quarrel. But now they all had the reward of their icy politenesses: there was no more ice, except on their plates, and the politeness was not a matter of etiquette. At present, they might be considered a republic, but no one knew what was going to happen after dinner. Not a word had been said about the tableaux.

Lucia dropped her voice as she spoke to him, and put in a good deal of Italian for fear she might be overheard.

“Non cognosce anybody?” she asked. “I tablieri, I mean. And are we all to sit in the aula, while the salone is being got ready?”

“Si,” said Georgie. “There’s a fire. When you go out, keep them there. I domestichi are making salone ready.”

“Molto bene. Then Peppino and you and I just steal away. La lampa is acting beautifully. We tried it over several times.”

“Everybody’s tummin’,” said Georgie, varying the cipher.

“Me so nervosa!” said Lucia. “Fancy me doing Brunnhilde before singing Brunnhilde. Me can’t bear it.”

Georgie knew that Lucia had been thrilled and delighted to know that Olga so much wanted to come in after dinner and see the tableaux, so he found it quite easy to induce Lucia to nerve herself up to an ordeal so passionately desired. Indeed he himself was hardly less excited at the thought of being King Cophetua.

At that moment, even as the crackers were being handed round, the sound of the carol-singers was heard from outside, and Lucia had to wince, as “Good King Wenceslas” looked out. When the Page and the King sang their speeches, the other voices grew piano, so that the effect was of a solo voice accompanied. When the Page sang, Lucia shuddered.

“That’s the small red-haired boy who nearly deafens me in church,” she whispered to Georgie. “Don’t you hope his voice will crack soon?”

She said this very discreetly, so as not to hurt Mrs Rumbold’s feelings, for she trained the choir. Everyone knew that the king was Mr Rumbold, and said “Charming” to each other, after he had sung.

“I liked that boy’s voice, too,” said Mrs Weston. “Tommy Luton used to have a lovely voice, but this one’s struck me as better-trained even than Tommy Luton’s. Great credit to you, Mrs Rumbold.”

The grey hungry mouse suddenly gave a shrill cackle of a laugh, quite inexplicable. Then Georgie guessed.

He got up.

“Now nobody must move,” he said, “because we haven’t drunk ‘absent friends’ yet. I’m just going out to see that they have a bit of supper in the kitchen before they go on.”

His trembling legs would scarcely carry him to the door, and he ran out. There were half a dozen little choir boys, four men and one tall cloaked woman….

“Divine!” he said to Olga. “Aunt Jane thought your voice very well trained. Come in soon, won’t you?”

“Yes: all flourishing?”

“Swimming,” said Georgie. “Lucia hoped your voice would crack soon. But it’s all being lovely.”

He explained about food in the kitchen and hurried back to his guests. There was the riddle of the Quantocks to solve: there were the tableaux vivants imminent: there was the little red-haired boy coming in soon. What a Christmas night!

Soon after Georgie’s hall began to fill up with guests, and yet not a word was said about tableaux. It grew so full that nobody could have said for certain whether Lucia and Peppino were there or not. Olga certainly was: there was no mistaking that fact. And then Foljambe opened the drawing-room door and sounded a gong.

The lamp behaved perfectly and an hour later one Brunnhilde was being extremely kind to the other, as they sat together. “If you really want to know my view, dear Miss Bracely,” said Lucia, “it’s just that. You must be Brunnhilde for the time being. Singing, of course, as you say, helps it out: you can express so much by singing. You are so lucky there. I am bound to say I had qualms when Peppino—or was it Georgie—suggested we should do Brunnhilde-Siegfried. I said it would be so terribly difficult. Slow: it has to be slow, and to keep gestures slow when you cannot make them mere illustrations of what you are singing—well, I am sure, it is very kind of you to be so flattering about it—but it is difficult to do that.”

“And you thought them all out for yourself?” said Olga. “Marvellous!”

“Ah, if I had ever seen you do it,” said Lucia, “I am sure I should have picked up some hints! And King Cophetua! Won’t you give me a little word for our dear King Cophetua? I was so glad after the strain of Brunnhilde to have my back to the audience. Even then there is the difficulty of keeping quite still, but I am sure you know that quite as well as I do, from having played Brunnhilde yourself. Georgie was very much impressed by your performance of it. And Mary Queen of Scots now! The shrinking of the flesh, and the resignation of the spirit! That is what I tried to express. You must come and help me next time I attempt this sort of thing again. That will not be quite soon, I am afraid, for Peppino and I am thinking of going to the Riviera for a little holiday.”

“Oh, but how selfish!” said Olga. “You mustn’t do that.”

Lucia gave the silvery laugh.

“You are all very tiresome about my going to the Riviera,” she said. “But I don’t promise that I shall give it up yet. We shall see! Gracious! How late it is. We must have sat very late over dinner. Why were you not asked to dinner, I wonder! I shall scold Georgie for not asking you. Ah, there is dear Mrs Weston going away. I must say good-night to her. She would think it very strange if I did not. Colonel Boucher, too! Oh, they are coming this way to save us the trouble of moving.”

A general move was certainly taking place, not in the direction of the door, but to where Olga and Lucia were sitting.

“It’s snowing,” said Piggy excitedly to Olga. “Will you mark my footsteps well, my page?”

“Piggy, you—you Goosie,” said Olga hurriedly. “Goosie, weren’t the tableaux lovely?”

“And the carols,” said Goosie. “I adored the carols. I guessed. Did you guess, Mrs Lucas?”

Olga resorted to the mean trick of treading on Goosie’s foot and apologising. That was cowardly because it was sure to come out sometime. And Goosie again trod on dangerous ground by saying that if the Page had trod like that, there was no need for any footsteps to be marked for him.

It was snowing fast, and Mrs Weston’s wheels left a deep track, but in spite of that, Daisy and Robert had not gone fifty yards from the door when they came to a full stop.

“Now, what is it?” said Daisy. “Out with it. Why did you talk about the discovery of muslin?”

“I only said that we were fortunate in a medium whom after all you picked up at a vegetarian restaurant,” said he. “I suppose I may indulge in general conversation. If it comes to that, why did you talk about exposure in the papers?”

“General conversation,” said Mrs Quantock all in one word. “So that’s all, is it?”

“Yes,” said Robert, “you may know something, and—”

“Now don’t put it all on me,” said Daisy. “If you want to know what I think, it is that you’ve got some secret.”

“And if you want to know what I think,” he retorted, “it is that I know you have.”

Daisy hesitated a moment, the snow was white on her shoulder and she shook her cloak.

“I hate concealment,” she said. “I found yards and yards of muslin and a pair of Amadeo’s eyebrows in that woman’s bedroom the very day she went away.”

“And she was fined last Thursday for holding a seance at which a detective was present,” said Robert. “15 Gerard Street. He seized Amadeo or Cardinal Newman by the throat, and it was that woman.”

She looked hastily round.

“When you thought that the chimney was on fire, I was burning muslin,” she said.

“When you thought the chimney was on fire, I was burning every copy of Todd’s News,” said he. “Also a copy of the Daily Mirror, which contained the case. It belonged to the Colonel. I stole it.”

She put her hand through his arm.

“Let’s get home,” she said. “We must talk it over. No one knows one word except you and me?”

“Not one, my dear,” said Robert cordially. “But there are suspicions. Georgie suspects, for instance. He saw me buy all the copies of Todd’s News, at least he was hanging about. Tonight he was clearly on the track of something, though he gave us a very tolerable dinner.”

They went into Robert’s study: it was cold, but neither felt it, for they glowed with excitement and enterprise.

“That was a wonderful stroke of yours, Robert,” said she. “It was masterly: it saved the situation. The Daily Mirror, too: how right you were to steal it. A horrid paper I always thought. Yes, Georgie suspects something, but luckily he doesn’t know what he suspects.”

“That’s why we both said we had just heard from that woman,” said Robert.

“Of course. You haven’t got a copy of Todd’s News, have you?”

“No: at least I burned every page of the police reports,” said he. “It was safer.”

“Quite so. I cannot show you Amadeo’s eyebrows for the same reason. Nor the muslin. Lovely muslin, my dear: yards of it. Now what we must do is this: we must continue to be interested in psychical things; we mustn’t drop them, or seem to be put off them. I wish now I had taken you into my confidence at the beginning and told you about Amadeo’s eyebrows.”

“My dear, you acted for the best,” said he. “So did I when I didn’t tell you about Todd’s News. Secrecy even from each other was more prudent, until it became impossible. And I think we should be wise to let it be understood that we hear from the Princess now and then. Perhaps in a few months she might even visit us again. It—it would be humorous to be behind the scenes, so to speak, and observe the credulity of the others.”

Daisy broke into a broad grin.

“I will certainly ask dear Lucia to a seance, if we do,” she said. “Dear me! How late it is: there was such a long wait between the tableaux. But we must keep our eyes on Georgie, and be careful how we answer his impertinent questions. He is sure to ask some. About getting that woman down again, Robert. It might be fool-hardy, for we’ve had an escape, and shouldn’t put our heads into the same noose again. On the other hand, it would disarm suspicion for ever, if, after a few months, I asked her to spend a few days of holiday here. You said it was a fine only, not imprisonment?”

The week was a busy one: Georgie in particular never had a moment to himself. The Hurst, so lately a desert, suddenly began to rejoice with joy and singing and broke out into all manner of edifying gaieties. Lucia, capricious queen, quite forgot all the vitriolic things she had said to him, and gave him to understand that he was just as high in favour as ever before, and he was as busy with his duties as ever he had been. Whether he would have fallen into his old place so readily if he had been a free agent, was a question that did not arise, for though it was Lucia who employed him, it was Olga who drove him there. But he had his consolation, for Lucia’s noble forgiveness of all the disloyalties against her, included Olga’s as well, and out of all the dinners and music parties, and recitations from Peppino’s new book of prose poems which was already in proof, and was read to select audiences from end to end, there was none to which Olga was not bidden, and none at which she failed to appear. Lucia even overlooked the fact that she had sung in the carols on Christmas night, though she had herself declared that it was the voice of the red-haired boy which was so peculiarly painful to her. Georgie’s picture of her (she never knew that Olga had really commissioned it) hung at the side of the piano in the music room, where the print of Beethoven had hung before, and it gave her the acutest gratification. It represented her sitting, with eyes cast down at her piano, and was indeed much on the same scheme as the yet unfinished one of Olga, which had been postponed in its favour, but there was no time for Georgie to think out another position, and his hand was in with regard to the perspective of pianos. So there it hung with its title, “The Moonlight Sonata,” painted in gilt letters on its frame, and Lucia, though she continued to say that he had made her far, far too young, could not but consider that he had caught her expression exactly….

So Riseholme flocked back to The Hurst like sheep that have been astray, for it was certain to find Olga there, even as it had turned there, deeply breathing, to the classes of the Guru. It had to sit through the prose-poems of Peppino, it had to listen to the old, old tunes and sigh at the end, but Olga mingled her sighs with theirs, and often after a suitable pause Lucia would say winningly to Olga:

“One little song, Miss Bracely. Just a stanza? Or am I trespassing too much on your good-nature? Where is your accompanist? I declare I am jealous of him: I shall pop into his place some day! Georgino, Miss Bracely is going to sing us something. Is not that a treat? Sh-sh, please, ladies and gentlemen.”

And she rustled to her place, and sat with the farthest-away expression ever seen on mortal face, while she trespassed on Miss Bracely’s good-nature.

Then Georgie had the other picture to finish, which he hoped to get ready in time to be a New Year’s present, since Olga had insisted on Lucia’s being done first. He had certainly secured an admirable likeness of her, and there was in it just all that his stippled, fussy representation of Lucia lacked. “Bleak December” and “Yellow Daffodils” and the rest of the series lacked it, too: for once he had done something in the doing of which he had forgotten himself. It was by no means a work of genius, for Georgie was not possessed of one grain of that, and the talent it displayed was by no means of a high order, but it had something of the naturalness of a flower that grew from the earth which nourished it.

On the last day of the year he was putting a few final touches to it, little high reflected lights on the black keys, little blacknesses of shadow in the moulding of the panel behind his hand. He had finished with her altogether, and now she sat in the window-seat, looking out, and playing with the blind-tassel. He had been so much absorbed in his work that he had scarcely noticed that she had been rather unusually silent.

“I’ve got a piece of news for you,” she said at length.

Georgie held his breath, as he drew a very thin line of body-colour along the edge of Ab.

“No! What is it?” he said. “Is it about the Princess?”

Olga seemed to hail this as a diversion.

“Ah, let’s talk about that for a minute,” she said. “What you ought to have done was to order another copy of Todd’s News at once.”

“I know I ought, but I couldn’t get one when I thought of it afterwards. That was tarsome. But I feel sure there was something about her in it.”

“And you can’t get anything out of the Quantocks?”

“No, though I’ve laid plenty of traps for them. There’s an understanding between them now. They both know something. When I lay a trap, it isn’t any use: they look at the trap, and then they look at each other afterwards.”

“What sort of traps?”

“Oh, anything. I say suddenly, ‘What a bore it is that there are so many frauds among mediums, especially paid ones.’ You see, I don’t believe for a moment that these seances were held for nothing, though we didn’t pay for going to them. And then Robert says that he would never trust a paid medium, and she looks at him approvingly, and says ‘Dear Princess’! The other day—it was a very good trap—I said, ‘Is it true that the Princess is coming to stay with Lady Ambermere?’ It wasn’t a lie: I only asked.”

“And then?” said Olga.

“Robert gave an awful twitch, not a jump exactly, but a twitch. But she was on the spot and said, ‘Ah, that would be nice. I wonder if it’s true. The Princess didn’t mention it in her last letter.’ And then he looked at her approvingly. There is something there, no one shall convince me otherwise.”

Olga suddenly burst out laughing.

“What’s the matter?” asked Georgie.

“Oh, it’s all so delicious!” she said. “I never knew before how terribly interesting little things were. It’s all wildly exciting, and there are fifty things going on just as exciting. Is it all of you who take such a tremendous interest in them that makes them so absorbing, or is it that they are absorbing in themselves, and ordinary dull people, not Riseholmites, don’t see how exciting they are? Tommy Luton’s measles: the Quantocks’ secret: Elizabeth’s lover! And to think that I believed I was coming to a backwater.”

Georgie held up his picture and half closed his eyes. “I believe it’s finished,” he said. “I shall have it framed, and put it in my drawing-room.”

This was a trap, and Olga fell into it.

“Yes, it will look nice there,” she said. “Really, Georgie, it is very clever of you.”

He began washing his brushes.

“And what was your news?” he said.

She got up from her seat.

“I forgot all about it, with talking of the Quantocks’ secret,” she said. “That just shows you: I completely forgot, Georgie. I’ve just accepted an offer to sing in America, a four months’ engagement, at fifty thousand million pounds a night. A penny less, and I wouldn’t have gone. But I really can’t refuse. It’s all been very sudden, but they want to produce Lucretia there before it appears in England. Then I come back, and sing in London all the summer. Oh, me!”

There was dead silence, while Georgie dried his brushes.

“When do you go?” he asked.

“In about a fortnight.”

“Oh,” said he.

She moved down the room to the piano and shut it without speaking, while he folded the paper round his finished picture.

“Why don’t you come, too?” she said at length. “It would do you no end of good, for you would get out of this darling two-penny place which will all go inside a nut-shell. There are big things in the world, Georgie: seas, continents, people, movements, emotions. I told my Georgie I was going to ask you, and he thoroughly approves. We both like you, you know. It would be lovely if you would come. Come for a couple of months, anyhow: of course you’ll be our guest, please.”

The world, at that moment, had grown absolutely black to him, and it was by that that he knew who, for him, was the light of it. He shook his head.

“Why can’t you come?” she said.

He looked at her straight in the face.

“Because I adore you,” he said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The glad word went round Riseholme one March morning that the earliest flower in Perdita’s garden was in bloom. The day was one of those glories of the English spring-time, with large white clouds blown across wide spaces of blue sky by the southwest wind, and with swift shadows that bowled across the green below them. Parliament was in full conclave that day, and in the elms the rooks were busy.

An awful flatness had succeeded Olga’s departure. Riseholme naturally took a good deal of credit for the tremendous success which had attended the production of Lucretia, since it so rightly considered that the real cradle of the opera was here, where she had tried it over for the first time. Lucia seemed to remember it better than anybody, for she remembered all sorts of things which no one else had the faintest recollection of: how she had discussed music with Signor Cortese, and he had asked her where she had her musical training. Such a treat to talk Italian with a Roman—lingua Toscana in bocca Romana—and what a wonderful evening it was. Poor Mrs Colonel recollected very little of this, but Lucia had long been aware that her memory was going sadly. After producing Lucretia in New York, Olga had appeared in some of her old roles, notably in the part of Brunnhilde, and Lucia was very reminiscent of that charming party of Christmas Day at dear Georgino’s, when they had the tableaux. Dear Olga was so simple and unspoiled: she had come to Lucia afterwards, and asked her to tell her how she had worked out her scheme of gestures in the awakening, and Lucia had been very glad, very glad indeed to give her a few hints. In fact, Lucia was quite herself: it was only her subjects whom it had been a little hard to stir up. Georgie in particular had been very listless and dull, and Lucia, for all her ingenuity, was at a complete loss to find a reason for it.

But today the warm inflowing tide of spring seemed to renovate the muddy flats, setting the weeds, that had lain dank and dispirited, a-floating again on the return of the water. No one could quite resist the magic of the season, and Georgie, who had intended out of mere politeness to go to see the earliest of Perdita’s stupid flowers (having been warned of its epiphany by telephone from The Hurst) found, when he set foot outside his house on that warm windy morning, that it would be interesting to stroll across the green first, and see if there was any news. All the news he had really cared about for the last two months was news from America, of which he had a small packet done up in a pink riband.

After getting rid of Piggy, he went to the newspaper shop, to get his “Times,” which most unaccountably had not arrived, and the sight of “Todd’s News” in its yellow cover stirred his drowsy interest. Not one atom of light had ever been thrown on that extraordinary occurrence when Robert bought the whole issue, and though Olga never failed to enquire, he had not been able to give her the slightest additional information. Occasionally he set a languid trap for one of the Quantocks, but they never by any chance fell into it. The whole affair must be classed with problems like the origin of evil, among the insoluble mysteries of life.

It was possible to get letters by the second post an hour earlier than the house-to-house delivery by calling at the office, and as Georgie was waiting for his “Times,” Mrs Quantock came hurrying out of the post-office with a small packet in her hands, which she was opening as she walked. She was so much absorbed by this that she did not see Georgie at all, though she passed quite close to him, and soon after shed a registered envelope. At that the “old familiar glamour” began to steal over him again, and he found himself wondering with intensity what it contained.

She was now some hundred yards in front of him, walking in the direction of The Hurst, and there could be no doubt that she, too, was on her way to see Perdita’s first flower. He followed her going more briskly than she and began to catch her up. Soon (this time by accident, not in the manner in which, through eagerness she had untidily cast the registered envelope away) she dropped a small paper, and Georgie picked it up, meaning to give it her. It had printed matter on the front of it, and was clearly a small pamphlet. He could not possibly help seeing what that printed matter was, for it was in capital letters:

INCREASE YOUR HEIGHT

Georgie quickened his step, and the old familiar glamour brightened round him. As soon as he got within speaking distance, he called to her, and turning round, “like a guilty thing surprised,” a little box flew out of her hand. As it fell the lid came off, and there was scattered on the green grass a multitude of red lozenges. She gave a cry of dismay.

“Oh! Mr Georgie, how you startled me” she said. “Do help me to pick them up. Do you think the damp will have hurt them? Any news? I was so wrapped up in what I was doing that I’ve spoken to nobody.”

Georgie assisted in the recovery of the red lozenges.

“You dropped this as you walked,” he said. “I picked it up in order to give it you.”

“Ah, that is kind, and did you see what it was?”

“I couldn’t help seeing the outside,” said Georgie.

She looked at him a moment, wondering what was the most prudent course. If she said nothing more, he would probably tell everybody….

“Well, then I shall let you into the whole secret,” she said. “It’s the most wonderful invention, and increases your height, whatever your age is, from two to six inches. Fancy! There are some exercises you have to do, rather like those Yoga ones, every morning, and you eat three lozenges a day. Quite harmless they are, and then you soon begin to shoot up. It sounds incredible, doesn’t it? but there are so many testimonials that I can’t doubt it is genuine. Here’s one of a man who grew six inches. I saw it advertised in some paper, and sent for it. Only a guinea! What fun when Robert begins to see that I am taller than he is! But now not a word! Don’t tell dear Lucia whatever you do. She is half a head taller than I, and it would be no fun if everybody grew from two to six inches. You may write for them, and I’ll give you the address, but you must tell nobody.”

“Too wonderful” said Georgie. “I shall watch you. Here we are. Look, there’s Perdita’s flower. What a beauty!”

It was not necessary to press the mermaid’s tail, for Lucia had seen them from the music-room, and they heard her high heels clacking over the polished floor of the hall.

“Listen! No more need of high heels!” said Mrs Quantock. “And I’ve got something else to tell you. Lucia may hear that. Ah, dear Lucia, what a wonderful Perdita-blossom!”

“Is it not?” said Lucia, blowing kisses to Georgie, and giving them to Daisy. “That shows spring is here. Primavera! And Peppino’s piccolo libro comes out today. I should not be a bit surprised if you each of you found a copy of it arrived before evening. Glorious! It’s glorious!”

Surely it was no wonder that Georgie’s blood began to canter along his arteries again. There had been very pleasant exciting years before now, requiring for their fuel no more than was ready at this moment to keep up the fire. Mrs Quantock was on tiptoe, so to speak, to increase her height, Peppino was just delivered of a second of these vellum volumes with seals and tapes outside, Mrs Weston was going to become Mrs Colonel at the end of the week, and at the same hour and church Elizabeth was going to become Mrs Atkinson. Had these things no savour, because—

“How is ’oo?” said Georgie, with a sudden flush of the spring-time through him. “Me vewy well, sank ’oo and me so want to read Peppino’s bookie-bookie.”

“’Oo come in,” said Lucia. “Evewybody come in. Now, who’s got ickle bit news?”

Mrs Quantock had been walking on her toes all across the hall, in anticipation of the happy time when she would be from two to six inches taller. As the animated pamphlet said, the world assumed a totally different aspect when you were even two inches taller. She was quite sorry to sit down.

“Is next week very full with you, dear Lucia?” she asked.

Lucia pressed her finger to her forehead.

“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” she began. “No, not Tuesday, I am doing nothing on Tuesday. You want to be the death of me between you. Why?”

“I hope that my dear friend, Princess Popoffski, will be staying with me” said Mrs Quantock. “Do get over your prejudice against spiritualism, and give it a chance. Come to a seance on Tuesday. You, too, of course, Georgie: I know better than to invite Lucia without you.”

Lucia put on the far-away look which she reserved for the masterpieces of music, and for Georgie’s hopeless devotion.

“Lovely! That will be lovely!” she said. “Most interesting! I shall come with a perfectly open mind.”

Georgie scarcely lamented the annihilation of a mystery. He must surely have imagined the mystery, for it all collapsed like a card-house, if the Princess was coming back. The seances had been most remarkable, too; and he would have to get out his planchette again.

“And what’s going to happen on Wednesday?” he asked Lucia. “All I know is that I’ve not been asked. Me’s offended.”

“Ickle surprise,” said Lucia. “You’re not engaged that evening, are you? Nor you, dear Daisy? That’s lovely. Eight o’clock? No, I think a quarter to. That will give us more time. I shan’t tell you what it is.”

Mrs Quantock, grasping her lozenges, wondered how much taller she would be by then. As Lucia played to them, she drew a lozenge out of the box and put it into her mouth, in order to begin growing at once. It tasted rather bitter, but not unpleasantly so.