“She’s in Paris,” said Georgie.
“No! What a disappointment! I had already written her a card, asking her to dine with us the day after to-morrow, which I was taking up to London to post there.”
“She may be back by then,” said Georgie.
Lucia rose and went to her writing table, on which, as Georgie was thrilled to observe, was a whole pile of stamped and directed envelopes.
“I think I won’t chance it,” said Lucia, “for I had enclosed another card for Signor Cortese which I wanted her to forward, asking him for the same night. He composed ‘Lucrezia’ you know, which I see is coming out in London in the first week of the Opera Season, with her, of course, in the name-part. But it will be safer to ask them when I know she is back.”
Georgie longed to know to whom all the other invitations were addressed. He saw that the top one was directed to an M.P., and guessed that it was for the member for the Riseholme district, who had lunched at The Hurst during the last election.
“And what are you going to do to-night?” he asked.
“Dining with dear Aggie Sandeman. I threw myself on her mercy, for the servants won’t have settled in, and I hoped we should have just a little quiet evening with her. But it seems that she’s got a large dinner-party on. Not what I should have chosen, but there’s no help for it now. Oh, Georgie, to think of you in dear old quiet Riseholme and poor Pepino and me gabbling and gobbling at a huge dinner-party.”
She looked wistfully round the room.
“Good-bye, dear music-room,” she said, kissing her hand in all directions. “How glad I shall be to get back! Oh, Georgie, your Manual on Auction Bridge got packed by mistake. So sorry. I’ll send it back. Come in and play the piano sometimes, and then it won’t feel lonely. We must be off, or Pepino will get fussing. Say good-bye to everyone for us, and explain. And Perdita’s border! Will sweet Perdita forgive me for leaving all her lovely flowers and running away to London? After all, Georgie, Shakespeare wrote ‘The Winter’s Tale’ in London, did he not? Lovely daffies! And violets dim. Let me give you ’ickle violet, Georgie, to remind you of poor Lucia tramping about in long unlovely streets, as Tennyson said.”