“Well, I never!” she said. “Oh, but so like Pepino! How could Bertie have told he got his sword entangled just like that? And look what he says.... Oh, and then Me! Just because I met him at Marcia’s party and people were wanting to know when I had an evening free! Of all the impertinences! How I shall scold him!” Lucia did it quite admirably in blissful unconsciousness that Adele knew she had been here before. She laughed, she looked again and laughed again (Mrs. Lucas and Lady Brixton in fits of merriment over the cartoon of Mr. Lucas and herself, thought Hermione.) “Ah, and there’s Lord Hurtacombe,” she said. “I’m sure that’s Lord Hurtacombe, though you can’t see much of him, and, look, Olga surely, is it not? How does he do it?” That was a very clever identification for one who had not previously studied the catalogue, for Olga’s face consisted entirely of a large open mouth and the tip of a chin, it might have been the face of anybody yawning. Her arms were stretched wide, and she towered above a small man in shorts. “The last scene in Siegfried, I’m sure,” said Lucia. “What does the catalogue say, Stephen? Yes, I am right. ‘Siegfried! Brunnhilde!’ How wicked, is it not? But killing! Who could be cross with him?” This was all splendid stuff for Luciaphils; it was amazing how at a first glance she recognized everybody. The gallery, too, was full of dears and darlings of a few weeks’ standing, and she completed a little dinner-party for next Tuesday long before she had made the circuit. All the time she kept Stephen by her side, looked over his catalogue, put a hand on his arm to direct his attention to some picture, took a speck of alien material off his sleeve, and all the time the entranced Adele felt increasingly certain that she had plumbed the depth of the adorable situation. Her sole anxiety was as to whether Stephen would plumb it too. He might--though he didn’t look like it--welcome these little tokens of intimacy as indicating something more, and when they were alone attempt to kiss her, and that would ruin the whole exquisite design. Luckily his demeanour was not that of a favoured swain; it was, on the other hand, more the demeanour of a swain who feared to be favoured, and if that shy thing took fright, the situation would be equally ruined.... To think that the most perfect piece of Luciaphilism was dependent on the just perceptions of Stephen! As the three made their slow progress, listening to Lucia’s brilliant identifications, Adele willed Stephen to understand; she projected a perfect torrent of suggestion toward his mind. He must, he should understand....