Lucia suddenly felt that she had shown too much of the silver (or was it gold?) lining to the cloud of affliction that had overshadowed her.
“Poor Auntie!” she said. “We don’t forget her through it all. We hoped she might have been spared us a little longer.”
That came out of her note to Daisy Quantock (and perhaps to others as well), but Lucia could not have known that Georgie had already been told about that.
“Now, I’ve come here to take your mind off these sad things,” he said. “You mustn’t dwell on them any longer.”
She rose briskly.
“You’ve been ever so good to me,” she said. “I should just have moped if I had been alone.”
She lapsed into the baby-language which they sometimes spoke, varying it with easy Italian.
“Ickle music, Georgie?” she said. “And you must be kindy-kindy to me. No practice all these days. You brought Mozart? Which part is easiest? Lucia wants to take easiest part.”
“Lucia shall take which ever part she likes,” said Georgie who had had a good practise at both.
“Treble then,” said Lucia. “But oh, how diffy it looks! Hundreds of ickle notes. And me so tupid at reading! Come on then. You begin, Uno, due, tre.”