There was a splendour in the ruthlessness with which Lucia bowled over, like ninepins, every article of her own Riseholme creed, which saw Bolshevism in all modern art, inanity in crossword puzzles and Bridge, and aimless vacuity in London.... Immediately after the fresh tune on the wireless began, and most unfortunately, they came in for the Funeral March of a Marionette. A spasm of pain crossed Lucia’s face, and Olga abruptly turned off this sad reminder of unavailing woe. “Go on: I like that tune!” said the drowsy and thoughtless Robert, and a hurried buzz of conversation covered this melancholy coincidence. It was already late, and Lucia rose to go. “Delicious evening!” she said. “And lovely to think that we shall so soon be neighbours in London as well. My music-room always at your disposal. Are you coming, Georgie?” “Not this minute,” said Georgie firmly. Lucia was not quite accustomed to this, for Georgie usually left any party when she left. She put her head in the air as she swept by him, but then relented again. “Dine to-morrow, then? We won’t have any music after this feast to-night,” said she forgetting that the feast had been almost completely of her own providing. “But perhaps little game of cut-throat, you and Pepino and me.” “Delightful,” said Georgie. * * * * * Olga hurried back after seeing off her other guests. “Oh, Georgie, what richness,” she said. “By the way, of course it _was_ Cortot who was playing the Moonlight faster than Cortot plays it.” Georgie put down his tambour. “I thought it probably would be,” he said. “That’s the kind of thing that happens to Lucia. And now we know where we are. She’s going to make a circle in London and be its centre. Too thrilling! It’s all as clear as it can be. All we don’t know about yet is the pearls.” “I doubt the pearls,” said Olga. “No, I think there are pearls,” said Georgie, after a moment’s intense concentration. “Otherwise she wouldn’t have told me they appeared in the Sargent portrait of the aunt.” Olga suddenly gave a wild hoot of laughter. “Oh, why does one ever spend a single hour away from Riseholme?” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t,” said Georgie. “But you go off to-morrow?” “Yes, to Paris. My excuse is to meet my Georgie----” “Here he is,” said Georgie. “Yes, bless him. But the one who happens to be my husband. Georgie, I think I’m going to change my name and become what I really am, Mrs. George Shuttleworth. Why should singers and actresses call themselves Madame Macaroni or Signora Semolina? Yes, that’s my excuse, as I said when you interrupted me, and my reason is gowns. I’m going to have lots of new gowns.” “Tell me about them,” said Georgie. He loved hearing about dress. “I don’t know about them yet; I’m going to Paris to find out. Georgie, you’ll have to come and stay with me when I’m settled in London. And when I go to practise in Lucia’s music-room you shall play my accompaniments. And shall I be shingled?”