“And they want poor little me to be President,” said Lucia. “So shall I send Mr. Stratton a line and say we will? It would be kind, Georgie. Oh, by the way, do come and dine to-night. Pepino--so much better, thanks--Pepino told me to ask you. He would enjoy it. Just one of our dear little evenings again.” Lucia, in fact, was bringing her batteries into action, and Georgie was the immediate though not the ultimate objective. He longed to be on the golf-committee, he was intensely grateful for the promised removal of Pug, and it was much more amusing to play golf with Lucia than to be dragooned round by Daisy who told him after every stroke what he ought to have done and could never do it herself. A game should not be a lecture. Lucia thought it was time to confide in him about the abandoning of Brompton Square. Georgie would love knowing what nobody else knew yet. She waited till he had failed to hole a short putt, and gave him the subsequent one, which Daisy never did. “I hope we shall have many of our little evenings, Georgie,” she said. “We shall be here till Christmas. No, no more London for us, though it’s a secret at present.” “What?” said Georgie. “Wait a moment,” said Lucia, teeing up for the last hole. “Now ickle ballie, fly away home. There!...” and ickle ballie flew at about right-angles to home, but ever such a long way. She walked with him to cover-point, where he had gone too. “Pepino must never live in London again,” she said. “All going to be sold, Georgie. The house and the furniture and the pearls. You must put up with your poor old Lucia at Riseholme again. Nobody knows yet but you, but now it is all settled. Am I sorry? Yes, Georgie, course I am. So many dear friends in London. But then there are dear friends in Riseholme. Oh, what a beautiful bang, Georgie. You nearly hit Daisy. Call ‘Five!’ isn’t that what they do?” Lucia was feeling much surer of her ground. Georgie, bribed by a place on the golf-committee and by her admiration of his golf, and by her nobility with regard to Pug, was trotting back quick to her, and that was something. Next morning she had a hectic interview with Lady Ambermere.... Lady Ambermere was said to be not at home, though Lucia had seen her majestic face at the window of the pink saloon. So she asked for Miss Lyall, the downtrodden companion, and waited in the hall. Her chauffeur had deposited the large brown-paper parcel with Pug inside on the much-admired tessellated pavement. “Oh, Miss Lyall,” said Lucia. “So sad that dear Lady Ambermere is out, for I wanted to convey the grateful thanks of the Museum Committee to her for her beautiful gift of poor Pug. But they feel they can’t.... Yes, that’s Pug in the brown-paper parcel. So sweet. But will you, on Lady Ambermere’s return, make it quite clear?” Miss Lyall, looking like a mouse, considered what her duty was in this difficult situation. She felt that Lady Ambermere ought to know Lucia’s mission and deal with it in person.