“I wouldn’t,” said Daisy savagely. “If she asked me fifty times I should say ‘no’ fifty times. What’s happened is that she’s dropped us. I wouldn’t have her on our museum committee if--if she gave her pearls to it and said they belonged to Queen Elizabeth. I wonder you haven’t got more spirit.” “I’ve got plenty of spirit,” said Georgie, “and I allow I did feel rather hurt at her letter. But then, after all, what does it matter?” “Of course it doesn’t if you’re going to stay with Olga,” said Daisy. “How she’ll hate you for that!” “Well, I can’t help it,” he said. “Lucia hasn’t asked me and Olga has. She’s twice reminded Olga that she may use her music-room to practise in whenever she likes. Isn’t that kind? She would love to be able to say that Olga’s always practising in her music-room. But aren’t we ill-natured? Let’s weedj instead.” * * * * * Georgie found, when he arrived next afternoon in Brompton Square, that Olga had already had her early dinner, and that he was to dine alone at seven and follow her to the opera house. “I’m on the point of collapse from sheer nerves,” she said. “I always am before I sing, and then out of desperation I pull myself together. If--I say ‘if’--I survive till midnight, we’re going to have a little party here. Cortese is coming, and Princess Isabel, and one or two other people. Georgie, it’s very daring of you to come here, you know, because my husband’s away, and I’m an unprotected female alone with Don Juan. How’s Riseholme? Talk to me about Riseholme. Are you engaged to Piggy yet? And is it broccoli or phlox in Daisy’s round bed? Your letter was so mysterious too. I know nothing about the Museum yet. What museum? Are you going to kill and stuff Lucia and put her in the hall? You simply alluded to the Museum as if I knew all about it. If you don’t talk to me, I shall scream.” Georgie flung himself into the task, delighted to be thought capable of doing anything for Olga. He described at great length and with much emphasis the whole of the history of Riseholme from the first epiphany of Arabic and Abfou on the planchette-board down to the return of Simkinson. Olga lost herself in these chronicles, and when her maid came in to tell her it was time to start, she got up quite cheerfully. “And so it was broccoli,” she said. “I was afraid it was going to be phlox after all. You’re an angel, Georgie, for getting me through my bad hour. I’ll give you anything you like for the Museum. Wait for me afterward at the stage door. We’ll drive back together.”