“I heard from Olga this morning,” he said, “a great long telegram. She is coming down for the week-end.”
Lucia gave a wintry smile. She did not care for Olga’s coming down. Riseholme was quite silly about Olga.
“That will be nice for you, Georgie,” she said.
“She sent you a special message,” said he.
“I am grateful for her sympathy,” said Lucia. “She might perhaps have written direct to me, but I’m sure she was full of kind intentions. As she sent the message by you verbally, will you verbally thank her? I appreciate it.”
Even as she delivered these icy sentiments, Lucia got up rather hastily and passed behind him. Something white on the music-rest of the piano had caught her eye.
“Don’t move, Georgie,” she said, “sit and warm yourself and light your cigarette. Anything else?”
She walked up the room to the far end where the piano stood, and Georgie, though he was a little deaf, quite distinctly heard the rustle of paper. The most elementary rudiments of politeness forbade him to look round. Besides he knew exactly what was happening. Then there came a second rustle of paper, which he could not interpret.
“Anything else, Georgie?” repeated Lucia, coming back to her chair.
“Yes. But Olga’s message wasn’t quite that,” he said. “She evidently hadn’t heard of your bereavement.”