Georgie went quickly down the road (for he saw Lucia’s motor already at the door) and up the paved walk that led past the sundial, round which was the circular flower-border known as Perdita’s border, for it contained only the flowers that Perdita gathered. To-day it was all a-bloom with daffodils and violets and primroses, and it was strange to think that Lucia would not go gassing on about Perdita’s border, as she always did at this time of the year, but would have to be content with whatever flowers there happened to be in Brompton Square: a few sooty crocuses perhaps and a periwinkle.... She was waiting for him, kissed her hand through the window, and opened the door. “Now for a little chat,” she said, adjusting a very smart hat, which Georgie was sure he had never seen before. There was no trace of mourning about it: it looked in the highest spirits. So, too, did Lucia. “Sit down, Georgie,” she said, “and cheer me up. Poor Lucia feels ever so sad at going away.” “It is rather sudden,” he said. “Nobody dreamed you were off to-day, at least until they saw the _Times_ this morning.” Lucia gave a little sigh. “I know,” she said, “but Pepino thought that was the best plan. He said that if Riseholme knew when I was going, you’d all have had little dinners and lunches for us, and I should have been completely worn out with your kindness and hospitality. And there was so much to do, and we weren’t feeling much like gaiety. Seen anybody this morning? Any news?” “I saw Daisy,” said Georgie. “And told her?” “No, it was she who saw it in the _Times_ first, and sent it round to me,” said Georgie. “She’s got a Ouija board, by the way. It came this morning.” “That’s nice,” said Lucia. “I shall think of Riseholme as being ever so busy. And everybody must come up and stay with me, and you first of all. When will you be able to come?” “Whenever you ask me,” said Georgie. “Then you must give me a day or two to settle down, and I’ll write to you. You’ll be popping across though every moment of the day to see Olga.” “She’s in Paris,” said Georgie. “No! What a disappointment! I had already written her a card, asking her to dine with us the day after to-morrow, which I was taking up to London to post there.” “She may be back by then,” said Georgie. Lucia rose and went to her writing table, on which, as Georgie was thrilled to observe, was a whole pile of stamped and directed envelopes. “I think I won’t chance it,” said Lucia, “for I had enclosed another card for Signor Cortese which I wanted her to forward, asking him for the same night. He composed ‘Lucrezia’ you know, which I see is coming out in London in the first week of the Opera Season, with her, of course, in the name-part. But it will be safer to ask them when I know she is back.”