Such fury and withering sarcasm, though possibly excessive, had, it was felt, a certain justification, for had not Lucia for years given little indulgent smiles when anyone referred to the cheap delights and restless apish chatterings of London? She had always come back from her visits to that truly provincial place which thought itself a centre, wearied with its false and foolish activity, its veneer of culture, its pseudo-Athenian rage for any new thing. They were all busy enough at Riseholme, but busy over worthy objects, over Beethoven and Shakespeare, over high thinking, over study of the true masterpieces. And now, the moment that Aunt Amy’s death gave her and Pepino the means to live in the fiddling little ant-hill by the Thames they were turning their backs on all that hitherto had made existence so splendid and serious a reality, and were training, positively training for frivolity by exercises in Stravinski, Auction Bridge, and cross-word puzzles. Only the day before the fatal influx of fortune had come to them, Lucia, dropping in on Colonel and Mrs. Boucher about tea-time, had found them very cosily puzzling out a Children’s Cross-word in the evening paper, having given up the adult conundrum as too difficult, had pretended that even this was far beyond her poor wits, and had gone home the moment she had swallowed her tea in order to finish a canto of Dante’s Purgatorio.... And it was no use Lucia’s saying that they intended only to spend a week or two in Brompton Square before the house was sold: Daisy’s quickness and cleverness about the copper-plate at “Ye Signe of Ye Daffodille” had made short work of that. Lucia was evidently the prey of a guilty conscience too: she meant, so Mrs. Boucher was firmly convinced, to steal away, leaving the impression she was soon coming back. Vigorous reflections like these came in fits and spurts from Mrs. Boucher as her husband wheeled her home for lunch. “And as for the pearls, Jacob,” she said, as she got out, hot with indignation, “if you asked me, actually asked me what I think about the pearls, I should have to tell you that I don’t believe in the pearls. There may be half a dozen seed pearls in an old pill-box: I don’t say there are not, but that’s all the pearls we shall see. Pearls!” CHAPTER III Georgie had only just come down to breakfast and had not yet opened his _Times_, one morning at the end of this hectic week, when the telephone bell rang. Lucia had not been seen at all the day before and he had a distinct premonition, though he had not time to write it down, that this was she. It was: and her voice sounded very brisk and playful. “Is that Georgino?” she said. “Zat oo, Georgie?” Georgie had another premonition, stronger than the first. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Georgie, is oo coming round to say Ta-ta to poor Lucia and Pepino?” she said. (“I knew it,” thought Georgie.) “What, are you going away?” he asked.