“Ah, you wicked people,” she cried. “A plot: clearly a plot. Mr. Greatorex, how could you? Adele told you to come in here when she heard me begin my little strummings, and told you to sit down and encourage me. Don’t deny it, Adele! I know it was like that. I shall tell everybody how unkind you’ve been, unless Mr. Greatorex sits down instantly and magically restores to life what I have just murdered.”
Adele denied nothing. In fact there was no time to deny anything, for Lucia positively thrust Mr. Greatorex on to the music stool, and instantly put on her rapt musical face, chin in hand, and eyes looking dreamily upward. There was Nemesis, you would have thought, dealing thrusts at her, but Nemesis was no match for her amazing quickness. She parried and thrust again, and here—what richness of future reminiscence—was Mr. Greatorex playing Stravinski to her, before no audience but herself and Adele who really didn’t count, for the only tune she liked was “Land of Hope and Glory”.... Great was Lucia!
Adele left the two, warning them that it was getting on for dressing time, but there was some more Stravinski first, for Lucia’s sole ear. Adele had told her the direction of her room, and said her name was on the door, and Lucia found it at once. A beautiful room it was, with a bathroom on one side, and a magnificent Charles II bed draped at the back with wool-work tapestry. It was a little late for Lucia’s Elizabethan taste, and she noticed that the big wardrobe was Chippendale, which was later still. There was a Chinese paper on the wall, and fine Persian rugs on the floor, and though she could have criticized it was easy to admire. And there for herself was a very smart dress, and for decoration Aunt Amy’s pearls, and the Beethoven brooch. But she decided to avoid all possible chance of competition, and put the pearls back into her jewel-case. The Beethoven brooch, she was sure, need fear no rival.
Lucia felt that dinner, as far as she went, was a huge success. Stephen was seated just opposite her, and now and then she exchanged little distant smiles with him. Next her on one side was Lord Tony, who adored her story about Stravinski and Greatorex. She told him also what the Italian Ambassador had said about Mussolini, and the Prime Minister about Chequers: she was going to pop in to lunch on her way down to Riseholme after this delicious party. Then conversation shifted, and she turned left, and talked to the only man whose identity she had not grasped. But, as matter of public knowledge, she began about poor Babs, and her own admiration of her demeanour at that wicked trial, which had ended so disastrously. And once again there was slight tension.
Bridge and Mah-Jong followed, and rich allusive conversation and the sense, so dear to Lucia, of being in the very centre of everything that was distinguished. When the women went upstairs she hurried to her room, made a swift change into greater simplicity, and, by invitation, sought out Marcia’s room, at the far end of the passage, for a chat. Adele was there, and dear (rather common) Aggie was there, and Aggie was being just a shade sycophantic over the six rows of Whitby pearls. Lucia was glad she had limited her splendours to the Beethoven brooch.
“But why didn’t you wear your pearls, Lucia?” asked Adele. “I was hoping to see them.” (She had heard talk of Aunt Amy’s pearls, but had not noticed them on the night of Marcia’s ball.)
“My little seedlings!” said Lucia. “Just seedlings, compared to Marcia’s marbles. Little trumperies!”
Aggie had seen them, and she knew Lucia did not overstate their minuteness. Like a true Luciaphil, she changed a subject that might prove embarrassing.
“Take away your baubles, Marcia,” said Aggie. “They are only diseases of a common shell fish which you eat when it’s healthy and wear when it’s got a tumour.... How wretched it is to think that all of us aren’t going to meet day after day as we have been doing! There’s Adele going to America, and there’s Marcia going to Scotland—what a foul spot, Marcia, come to Marienbad instead with me. And what are you going to do, Lucia?”
“Oh, my dear, how I wanted to go to Aix or Marienbad,” she said. “But my Pepino says it’s impossible. We’ve got to stop quiet at Riseholme. Shekels, tiresome shekels.”