LITMIR.BIZ

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door.

      “Yes?” she said. “Then we will have a great talk about it, when you come to see me the day after tomorrow. But I know I shall find you hard to convince.”

      She kissed the tips of her fingers in a manner so hopelessly final that there was nothing to do but go away.

      Then with poor generalship, Lucia altered her tactics, and went up to the Village Green where Piggy was telling Georgie about the script signed Annabel. This was repeated again for Lucia’s benefit.

      “Wasn’t it too lovely?” said Piggy. “So Annabel’s my guide, and she writes a hand quite unlike mine.”

      Lucia gave a little scream, and put her fingers to her ears.

      “Gracious me!” she said. “What has come over Riseholme? Wherever I go I hear nothing but talk of seances, and spirits, and automatic writing. Such a pack of nonsense, my dear Piggy. I wonder at a sensible girl like you.”

      Mrs Weston, propelled by the Colonel, whirled up in her bath-chair.

      “‘The Palmist’s Manual’ is too wonderful,” she said, “and Jacob and I sat up over it till I don’t know what hour. There’s a break in his line of life, just at the right place, when he was so ill in Egypt, which is most remarkable, and when Tommy Luton brought round my bath-chair this morning—I had it at the garden-door, because the gravel’s just laid at my front-door, and the wheels sink so far into it—‘Tommy,’ I said, ‘let me look at your hand a moment,’ and there on his line of fate, was the little cross that means bereavement. It came just right didn’t it, Jacob? when he was thirteen, for he’s fourteen this year, and Mrs Luton died just a year ago. Of course I didn’t tell Tommy that, for I only told him to wash his hands, but it was most curious. And has your planchette come yet, Mr Georgie? I shall be most anxious to know what it writes, so if you’ve got an evening free any night soon just come round for a bit of dinner, and we’ll make an evening of it, with table turning and planchette and palmistry. Now tell me all about the seance the first night. I wish I could have been present at a real seance, but of course Mrs Quantock can’t find room for everybody, and I’m sure it was most kind of her to let the Colonel and me come in yesterday afternoon. We were thrilled with it, and who knows but that the Princess didn’t write the Palmist’s Manual for on the title page it says it’s by P. and that might be Popoffski as easily as not, or perhaps Princess.”

      This allusion to there not being room for everybody was agony to Lucia. She laughed in her most silvery manner.

      “Or, perhaps Peppino,” she said. “I must ask mio caro if he wrote it. Or does it stand for Pillson? Georgino, are you the author of the Palmist’s Manual? Ecco! I believe it was you.”

      This was not quite wise, for no one detested irony more than Mrs Weston, or was sharper to detect it. Lucia should never have been ironical just then, nor indeed have dropped into Italian.

      “No” she said. “I’m sure it was neither Il Signer Peppino nor Il Signer Pillson who wrote it. I believe it was the Principessa. So, ecco! And did we not have a delicious evening at Miss Bracely’s the other night? Such lovely singing, and so interesting to learn that Signor Cortese made it all up. And those lovely words, for though I didn’t understand much of them, they sounded so exquisite. And fancy Miss Bracely talking Italian so beautifully when we none of us knew she talked it at all.”

      Mrs Weston’s amiable face was crimson with suppressed emotion, of which these few words were only the most insignificant leakage, and a very awkward pause succeeded which was luckily broken by everybody beginning to talk again very fast and brightly. Then Mrs Weston’s chair scudded away; Piggy skipped away to the stocks where Goosie was sitting with a large sheet of foolscap, in case her hand twitched for automatic script, and Lucia turned to Georgie, who alone was left.

      “Poor Daisy!” she said. “I dropped in just now, and really I found her very odd and strange. What with her crazes for Christian Science, and Uric Acid and Gurus and Mediums, one wonders if she is quite sane. So sad! I should be dreadfully sorry if she had some mental collapse; that sort of thing is always so painful. But I know of a first-rate place for rest-cures; I think it would be wise if I just casually dropped the name of it to Mr Robert, in case. And this last craze seems so terribly infectious. Fancy Mrs Weston dabbling in palmistry! It is too comical, but I hope I did not hurt her feelings by suggesting that Peppino or you wrote the Manual. It is dangerous to make little jokes to poor Mrs Weston.”

      Georgie quite agreed with that, but did not think it necessary to say in what sense he agreed with it. Every day now Lucia was pouring floods of light on a quite new side of her character, which had been undeveloped, like the print from some photographic plate lying in the dark so long as she was undisputed mistress of Riseholme. But, so it struck him now, since the advent of Olga, she had taken up a critical ironical standpoint, which previously she had reserved for Londoners. At every turn she had to criticise and condemn where once she would only have praised. So few months ago, there had been that marvellous Hightum garden party, when Olga had sung long after Lady Ambermere had gone away. That was her garden party; the splendour and success of it had been hers, and no one had been allowed to forget that until Olga came back again. But the moment that happened, and Olga began to sing on her own account (which after all, so Georgie thought, she had a perfect right to do), the whole aspect of affairs was changed. She romped, and Riseholme did not like romps; she sang in church, and that was theatrical; she gave a party with the Spanish quartette, and Brinton was publicly credited with the performance. Then had come Mrs Quantock and her Princess, and, lo, it would be kind to remember the name of an establishment for rest-cures, in the hope of saving poor Daisy’s sanity. Again Colonel Boucher and Mrs Weston were intending to get married, and consulted a Palmist’s Manual, so they too helped to develop as with acid the print that had lain so long in the dark.

      “Poor thing!” said Lucia, “it is dreadful to have no sense of humour, and I’m sure I hope that Colonel Boucher will thoroughly understand that she has none before he speaks the fatal words. But then he has none either, and I have often noticed that two people without any sense of humour find each other most witty and amusing. A sense of humour, I expect, is not a very common gift; Miss Bracely has none at all, for I do not call romping humour. As for poor Daisy, what can rival her solemnity in sitting night after night round a table with someone who may or may not be a Russian princess—Russia of course is a very large place, and one does not know how many princesses there may be there—and thrilling over a pot of luminous paint and a false nose and calling it Amadeo the friend of Dante.”

      This was too much for Georgie.

      “But you asked Mrs Quantock and the Princess to dine with you,” he said, “and hoped there would be a seance afterwards. You wouldn’t have done that, if you thought it was only a false nose and a pot of luminous paint.”

      “I may have been impulsive,” said Lucia speaking very rapidly. “I daresay I’m impulsive, and if my impulses lie in the direction of extending such poor hospitality as I can offer to my friends, and their friends, I am not ashamed of them. Far otherwise. But when I see and observe the awful effect of this so-called spiritualism on people whom I should have thought sensible and well-balanced—I do not include poor dear Daisy among them—then I am only thankful that my impulses did not happen to lead me into countenancing such piffle, as your sister so truly observed about poor Daisy’s Guru.”

      They had come opposite Georgie’s house, and suddenly his drawing-room window was thrown up. Olga’s head looked out.

      “Don’t have a fit, Georgie, to find me here” she said. “Good morning, Mrs Lucas; you were behind the mulberry, and I didn’t see you. But something’s happened to my kitchen range, and I can’t have lunch at home. Do give me some. I’ve brought my crystal, and we’ll gaze and gaze. I can see nothing at present except my own nose and the window. Are you psychical, Mrs Lucas?”

      This was the last straw; all Lucia’s grievances had been flocking together like swallows for their flight, and to crown all came this open annexation of Georgie. There was Olga, sitting in his window, all unasked, and demanding lunch, with her silly ridiculous crystal in her hand, wondering if

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