“So where’s the use,” asked Mrs. Boucher, “of paying a boy to let people into the Museum when nobody wants to be let in? I call it throwing money away. Far better close it till the spring, and have no more expense, except to pay him a shilling a week to open the windows and air it, say on Tuesday and Friday, or Wednesday and Saturday.” “I should suggest Monday and Thursday,” said Daisy, very decisively. If she couldn’t have it all her own way on the links, she could make herself felt on committees. “Very well, Monday and Thursday,” said Mrs. Boucher. “And then there’s another thing. It’s getting so damp in there, that if you wanted a cold bath, you might undress and stand there. The water’s pouring off the walls. A couple of oil-stoves, I suggest, every day except when it’s being aired. The boy will attend to them, and make it half a crown instead of a shilling. I’m going to Blitton to-morrow, and if that’s your wish I’ll order them. No: I’ll bring them back with me, and I’ll have them lit to-morrow morning. But unless you want to have nothing to show next spring but mildew, don’t let us delay about it. A crop of mildew won’t be sufficient attraction to visitors, and there’ll be nothing else.” Georgie rapped the table. “And I vote we take the manuscript of ‘Lucrezia’ out, and that one of us keeps it till we open again,” he said. “I should be happy to keep it,” said Daisy. Georgie wanted it himself, but it was better not to thwart Daisy to-day. Besides, he was in a hurry, as Lucia had asked him to bring round his planchette and see if Abfou would not like a little attention. Nobody had talked to Abfou for weeks. “Very well,” he said, “and if that’s all----” “I’m not sure I shouldn’t feel happier if it was at the bank,” said Mrs. Boucher. “Supposing it was stolen.” Georgie magnanimously took Daisy’s side: he knew how Daisy was feeling. Mrs. Boucher was outvoted, and he got up. “If that’s all then, I’ll be off,” he said. Daisy had a sort of conviction that he was going to do something with Lucia, perhaps have a lesson at golf. “Come in presently?” she said. “I can’t, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m busy till dinner.” And of course, on her way home, she saw him hurrying across to The Hurst with his planchette. CHAPTER XI Lucia made no allusion whatever to her athletic triumph in the afternoon when Georgie appeared. That was not her way: she just triumphed, and left other people to talk about it. But her principles did not prevent her speaking about golf in the abstract.