Abfou had been understood to say it was dead, but perhaps he meant something else, thought Daisy, and they went on to the small circular bed below the dining-room windows. “Phlox,” said Daisy hopefully. “Broccoli,” said Simkinson examining the young green sprouts. “And the long bed there. I sowed a lot of annuals there, and I don’t see a sign of anything coming up.” He fixed her with a merry eye. “I believe you’ve been weeding, ma’am,” he said. “I shall have to get you a lot of young plants if you want a bit of colour there. It’s too late for me to put my seeds in again.” Daisy rather wished she hadn’t come out with him, and changed the subject to something more cheerful. “Well, I sha’n’t want the rockery,” she said. “You needn’t bother about that. All these stones will be carted away in a day or two.” “Glad of that, ma’am. I’ll be able to get to my potting-shed again. Well, I’ll try to put you to rights. I’d best pull up the broccoli first, you won’t want it under your windows, will you? You stick to rolling the lawn, ma’am, if you want to garden. You won’t do any harm then.” It was rather dreadful being put in one’s place like this, but Daisy did not dare risk a second quarrel, and the sight of Georgie at the dining-room window (he had come across to “weedj,” as the psychical processes, whether ouija or planchette, were now called) was rather a relief. Weeding, after all, was unimportant compared to weedjing. “And I don’t believe I ever told you what Olga wrote about,” said Georgie, as soon as she was within range. “We’ve talked of nothing but museum. Oh, and Mrs. Boucher’s planchette has come. But it broke in the post, and she’s gumming it together.” “I doubt if it will act,” said Daisy. “But what did Olga say? It quite went out of my head to ask you.” “It’s too heavenly of her,” said he. “She’s asked me to go up and stay with her for the first night of the opera. She’s singing Lucrezia, and has got a stall for me.” “No!” said Daisy, making a trial trip over the blotting-paper to see if the pencil was sharp. “That will be an event! I suppose you’re going.” “Just about,” said Georgie. “It’s going to be broadcasted, too, and I shall be listening to the original.” “How interesting!” said Daisy. “And there you’ll be in Brompton Square, just opposite Lucia. Oh, you heard from her? What did she say?” “Apparently she’s getting on marvellously,” said Georgie. “Not a moment to spare. Just what she likes.” Daisy pushed the planchette aside. There would be time for that when she had had a little talk about Lucia. “And are you going to stay with her too?” she asked. Georgie was quite determined not to be ill-natured. He had taken no part (or very little) in this trampling on Lucia’s majesty, which had been so merrily going on. “I should love to, if she would ask me,” he observed. “She only says she’s going to. Of course, I shall go to see her.”