The moment Lucia had said it was quite impossible she had been longing for Georgie to urge her, and had indeed been prepared to encourage him to urge her if he didn’t do so of his own accord. His last words had given her an admirable opening. “I wonder!” she said. “Perhaps Pepino might feel inclined to go, if there really was no party. It doesn’t do to brood: you are right, I mustn’t let him brood. Selfish of me not to think of that. Who would there be, Georgie?” “That’s really for you to settle,” he said. “You?” she asked. “Yes,” said Georgie, thinking it unnecessary to add that Olga was dining with him on Sunday, and that he would be at lunch and dinner on Sunday. “Yes: she asked me to come.” “Well, then, what if you asked poor Daisy and her husband?” said Lucia. “It would be a treat for them. That would make six. I think six would be enough. I will do my best to persuade Pepino.” “Capital,” said Georgie. “And would you prefer lunch or dinner?” Lucia sighed. “I think dinner,” she said. “One feels more capable of making the necessary effort in the evening. But, of course, it is all conditional on Pepino’s feeling.” She glanced at the clock. “He will just be leaving Brompton Square,” she said. “And then, afterward, his lawyer is coming to lunch with him and have a talk. Such a lot of business to see to.” Georgie suddenly remembered that he did not yet know the number of the house. “Indeed there must be,” he said. “Such a delightful Square, but rather noisy, I should think, at the lower end.” “Yes, but deliciously quiet at the top end,” said Lucia. “A curve you know, and a _cul de sac_. Number twenty-five is just before the beginning of the curve. And no houses at the back. Just the peaceful old church-yard--though sad for Pepino to look out on this morning--and a footpath only up to Ennismore Gardens. My music-room looks out at the back.” Lucia rose. “Well, Georgie, you will be very busy this morning,” she said, “getting all the guests for Sunday, and I mustn’t keep you. But I should like to play you a morsel of Stravinski which I have been trying over. Terribly modern, of course, and it may sound hideous to you at first, and at best it’s a mere little tinkle if you compare it with the immortals. But there is something about it, and one mustn’t condemn all modern work unheard. There was a time no doubt when even Beethoven’s greatest sonatas were thought to be modern and revolutionary.” She led the way to the piano, where on the music-rest was the morsel of Stravinski, which explained the second and hitherto unintelligible rustle. “Sit by me, Georgie,” she said, “and turn over quick, when I nod. Something like this.”