“She’s been doing nothing else for weeks,” said Georgie. “I daresay she’s very good, but nobody takes any interest in it. She’s rather a bore about it----” “Georgie, don’t be unkind about poor Daisy,” said Lucia. “We must start little competitions, with prizes. Do you have partners? You and I will be partners at mixed putting. And what about Abfou?” It seemed to Georgie that this was just the old Lucia, and so no doubt it was. She was intending to bag any employments that happened to be going about and claim them as her own. It was larceny, intellectual and physical larceny, no doubt, but Lucia breathed life into those dead bones and made them interesting. It was weary work to watch Daisy dabbing away with her putter and then trying to beat her score without caring the least whether you beat it or not. And Daisy even telephoned her more marvellous feats, and nobody cared how marvellous they were. But it would be altogether different if Lucia was the goddess of putting.... “I haven’t Abfou’d for ages,” said Georgie. “I fancy she has dropped it.” “Well, we must pick everything up again,” said Lucia briskly, “and you sha’n’t be lazy any more, Georgie. Come and play duets. My dear piano! What shall we do?” They did quantities of things, and then Lucia played the slow movement of the Moonlight Sonata, and Georgie sighed as usual, and eventually Lucia let him out and walked with him to the garden gate. There were quantities of stars, and as usual she quoted “See how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid ...” and said she must ring him up in the morning, after a good night’s rest. There was a light in Daisy’s drawing-room, and just as he came opposite it she heard his step, for which she had long been listening, and looked out. “Is it Georgie?” she said, knowing perfectly well that it must be. “Yes,” said Georgie. “How late you are.” “And how is Lucia?” asked Daisy. Georgie quite forgot for the moment that Lucia was having complete rest. “Excellent form,” he said. “Such a talk, and such a music.” “There you are, then!” said Daisy. “There’s nothing the matter with her. She doesn’t want rest any more--than the moon. What does it mean, Georgie? Mark my words: it means something.” * * * * *