He was shown into the music-room, while her maid went to fetch her. The piano was open, so she had evidently been practising, and there was a copy of the Mozart duet which she had read so skilfully last night on the music-rest. For the moment Georgie thought he must have forgotten to take his copy away with him, but then looking at it more carefully he saw that there were pencilled marks for the fingering scribbled over the more difficult passages in the treble, which certainly he had never put there. At the moment he saw Lucia through the window coming up the garden, and he hastily took a chair far away from the piano and buried himself in _The Times_. They sat close together in front of the fire, and Georgie opened his errand. “I heard from Olga this morning,” he said, “a great long telegram. She is coming down for the week-end.” Lucia gave a wintry smile. She did not care for Olga’s coming down. Riseholme was quite silly about Olga. “That will be nice for you, Georgie,” she said. “She sent you a special message,” said he. “I am grateful for her sympathy,” said Lucia. “She might perhaps have written direct to me, but I’m sure she was full of kind intentions. As she sent the message by you verbally, will you verbally thank her? I appreciate it.” Even as she delivered these icy sentiments, Lucia got up rather hastily and passed behind him. Something white on the music-rest of the piano had caught her eye. “Don’t move, Georgie,” she said, “sit and warm yourself and light your cigarette. Anything else?” She walked up the room to the far end where the piano stood, and Georgie, though he was a little deaf, quite distinctly heard the rustle of paper. The most elementary rudiments of politeness forbade him to look round. Besides he knew exactly what was happening. Then there came a second rustle of paper, which he could not interpret. “Anything else, Georgie?” repeated Lucia, coming back to her chair. “Yes. But Olga’s message wasn’t quite that,” he said. “She evidently hadn’t heard of your bereavement.” “Odd,” said Lucia. “I should have thought perhaps that the death of Miss Amy Lucas--however, what was her message then?” “She wanted you very much--she said ‘particularly Lucia’--to go to lunch or dine with her on Sunday. Pepino, too, of course.” “So kind of her, but naturally quite impossible,” said Lucia. “Oh, but you mustn’t say that,” said Georgie. “She is down for just that day, and she wants to see all her old friends. Particularly Lucia, you know. In fact she asked me to get up two little parties for her at lunch and dinner. So, of course, I came to see you first, to know which you would prefer.” Lucia shook her head. “A party!” she said. “How do you think I could?” “But it wouldn’t be _that_ sort of party,” said Georgie. “Just a few of your friends. You and Pepino will have seen nobody to-night and all to-morrow. He will have told you everything by Sunday. And so bad to sit brooding.”