Georgie of course had noticed and inwardly applauded the lofty reticence which Lucia had shown about Daisy’s disaster this afternoon. But he had the strongest suspicion of her wish to weedj, and he fully expected that if Abfou “came through” and talked anything but Arabic, he would express his scorn of Daisy’s golf. There would be scathing remarks, corresponding to “snob” and those rude things about Lucia’s shingling of her hair, and then he would feel that Lucia had pushed. She might say she hadn’t, just as Daisy said she hadn’t, but it would be very unconvincing if Abfou talked about golf. He hoped it wouldn’t happen, for the very appositeness of Abfou’s remarks before had strangely shaken his faith in Abfou. He had been willing to believe that it was Daisy’s subconscious self that had inspired Abfou--or at any rate he tried to believe it--but it had been impossible to dissociate the complete Daisy from these violent criticisms. Planchette began to move. “Probably it’s Arabic,” said Georgie. “You never quite know. Empty your mind of everything, Lucia.” She did not answer, and he looked up at her. She had that far-away expression which he associated with renderings of the Moonlight Sonata. Then her eyes closed. Planchette was moving quietly and steadily along. When it came near the edge of the paper, it ran back and began again, and Georgie felt quite sure he wasn’t pushing: he only wanted it not to waste its energy on the tablecloth. Once he felt almost certain that it traced out the word “drive,” but one couldn’t be sure. And was that “committee”? His heart rather sank: it would be such a pity if Abfou was only talking about the golf club which no doubt was filling Lucia’s subconscious as well as conscious mind.... Then suddenly he got rather alarmed, for Lucia’s head was sunk forward, and she breathed with strange rapidity. “Lucia!” he said sharply. Lucia lifted her head, and Planchette stopped. “Dear me, I felt quite dreamy,” she said. “Let us go on talking, Georgie. Lady Ambermere this morning: I wish you could have seen her.” “Planchette has been writing,” said Georgie. “No!” said Lucia. “Has it? May we look?” Georgie lifted the machine. There was no Arabic at all, nor was it Abfou’s writing, which in quaint little ways resembled Daisy’s when he wrote quickly. “Vittoria,” he read. “I am Vittoria.” “Georgie, how silly,” said Lucia, “or is it the Queen?” “Let’s see what she says,” said Georgie. “I am Vittoria. I come to Riseholme. For proof, there is a dog and a Vecchia----” “That’s Italian,” said Lucia excitedly. “You see, Vittoria is Italian. Vecchia means--let me see; yes, of course, it means ‘old woman.’ ‘A dog, and an old woman who is angry.’ O Georgie, you did that! You were thinking about Pug and Lady Ambermere.”