“They thought they wouldn’t add to your big party,” said Georgie sumptuously. (That was another stinger.)
“And was it Princess Isabel I saw at your door?” asked Mr. Merriall with an involuntary glance at the writing-table. (Lucia had not mentioned her since.)
“Oh yes. They just motored down and took potluck with me.”
“What did you give them?” asked Lucia, forgetting her anxieties for a moment.
“Oh, just cold lamb and apple tart,” said Georgie.
“No!” said Lucia. “You ought to have brought them to lunch here. O Georgie, my picture, look. By Sigismund.”
“Oh yes,” said Georgie. “What’s it of?”
“Cattivo!” said Lucia. “Why, it’s a portrait of me. Sigismund, you know, he’s the greatest rage in London just now. Everybody is crazy to be painted by him.”
“And they look crazy when they are. It’s a mad world, my masters,” said Mr. Merriall.
“Naughty,” said Lucia. “Is it not wonderful, Georgie?”