us, but now she's here, she surely must ring somebody up."
Georgie was thinking intently.
"The next thing that will happen," he said, "will be that servants and luggage will arrive from the station. They'll be here any minute; I heard the three-twenty whistle just now. She and Peppino have driven down."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Daisy. "But even now, what about the chickens and all those eggs? Georgie, it must have been her cook who came last night — she and Peppino were dining out in London — and ordered all those provisions this morning. But there were enough to last them a week. And three pints of cream, so I've heard since, and enough ice for a skating rink and —"
It was then that Georgie had the flash of intuition that was for ever memorable. It soared above inductive reasoning.
"She's having a weekend party of some of her smart friends from London," he said slowly. "And she doesn't want any of us."
Daisy blinked at this amazing light. Then she cast one withering glance in the direction of The Hurst.
"She!" she said. "And her shingles. And her seed pearls! That's all."
A minute afterwards the station cab arrived pyramidal with luggage. Four figures disembarked, three female and one male.
"The major-domo," said Daisy, and without another word marched back into her house to ask Abfou about it all. He came through at once, and wrote 'Snob' all over the paper.
There was no reason why Georgie should not finish his sketch, and he sat down again and began by taking out the rest of the misplaced cobalt. He felt so certain of the truth of his prophecy that he just let it alone to fulfil itself, and for the next hour he never worked with more absorbed attention. He knew that Daisy came out of her house, walking very fast, and he supposed she was on her way to spread the news and forecast the sequel. But beyond the fact that he was perfectly sure that a party from London was coming down for the weekend, he could form no idea of what would be the result of that. It might be that Lucia would ask him or Daisy, or some of her old friends to dine, but if she had intended to do that she would probably have done it already. The only alternative seemed to be that she meant to ignore Riseholme altogether. But shortly before the arrival of the fast train from London at half-past four, his prophetical calm began (for he was but human) to be violently agitated, and he took his tea in the window of his drawing-room, which commanded a good view of the front garden of The Hurst, and put his opera-glasses ready to hand. The window was a big bow, and, he distinctly saw the end of Robert's brass telescope projecting from the corresponding window next door.
Once more a motor-horn sounded, and the Lucas's car drew up at the gate of The Hurst. There stepped out Mrs Garroby-Ashton, followed by the weird bright thing which had called to take Lucia to the private view of the Post-Cubists. Georgie had not time for the moment to rack his brain as to the name he had forgotten, for observation was his primary concern, and next he saw Lord Limpsfield, whom he had met at Olga's party. Finally there emerged a tall, slim, middle-aged man in Oxford trousers, for whom Georgie instantly conceived a deep distrust. He had thick auburn hair, for he wore no hat, and he waved his hands about in a silly manner as he talked. Over his shoulder was a little cape. Then Lucia came tripping out of the house with her short skirts and her shingles, and they all chattered together, and kissed and squealed, and pointed in different directions, and moved up the garden into the house. The door was shut, and the end of Robert's brass telescope withdrawn.
* * *
Hardly had these shameful events occurred when Georgie's telephone bell rang. It might be Daisy wanting to compare notes, but it might be Lucia asking him to tea. He felt torn in half at the idea: carnal curiosity urged him with clamour to go, dignity dissuaded him. Still halting between two opinions, he went towards the instrument, which continued ringing. He felt sure now that it was Lucia, and what on earth was he to say? He stood there so long that Foljambe came hurrying into the room, in case he had gone out.
"See who it is, Foljambe," he said.
Foljambe with amazing calm took off the receiver.
"Trunk call," she said.
He glued himself to the instrument, and soon there came a voice he knew.
"No! Is it you?" he asked. "What is it?"
"I'm motoring down tomorrow morning," said Olga, and Princess Isabel is probably coming with me, though she is not absolutely certain. But expect her, unless I telephone tomorrow. Be a darling and give us lunch, as we shall be late, and come and dine. Terrible hurry: goodbye."
"No, you must wait a minute," screamed Georgie. "Of course I'll do that, but I must tell you, Lucia's just come with a party from London and hasn't asked any of us."
"No!" said Olga. "Then don't tell her I'm coming. She's become such a bore. She asks me to lunch and dinner every day. How thrilling though, Georgie! Whom has she got?"
Suddenly the name of the weird bright female came back to Georgie.
"Mrs Alingsby," he said.
"Lor!" said Olga. "Who else?"
"Mrs Garroby-Ashton —"
"What?"
"Garr-o-by Ash-ton," said Georgie very distinctly; "and Lord Limpsfield. And a tall man in Oxford trousers with auburn hair."
"It sounds like your double, Georgie," said Olga. "And a little cape like yours?"
"Yes," said Georgie rather coldly.
"I think it must be Stephen Merriall," said Olga after a pause.
"And who's that?" asked he.
"Lucia's lover," said Olga quite distinctly.
"No!" said Georgie.
"Of course he isn't. I only meant he was always there. But I believe he's Hermione. I'm not sure, but I think so. Georgie, we shall have a hectic Sunday. Goodbye, tomorrow about two or three for lunch, and two or three for lunch. What a gossip you are."
He heard that delicious laugh, and the click of her receiver.
Georgie was far too thrilled to gasp. He sat quite quiet, breathing gently. For the honour of Riseholme he was glad that a Princess was perhaps coming to lunch with him, but apart from that he would really have much preferred that Olga should be alone. The 'affaire Lucia' was so much more thrilling than anything else, but Princess Isabel might feel no interest in it, and instead they would talk about all sorts of dull things like kings and courts . . . Then suddenly he sprang from his chair: there was a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch, and an apple tart, and nothing else at all. What was to be done? The shops by now would be shut.
He rang for Foljambe.
"Miss Olga's coming to lunch and possibly — possibly a friend of hers," he said. "What are we to do?"
"A leg of lamb and an apple tart's good enough for anybody, isn't it?" said Foljambe severely.
This really seemed true as soon as it was pointed out, and Georgie made an effort to dismiss the matter from his mind. But he could not stop still: it was all so exciting, and after having changed his Oxford trousers in order to minimise the likeness between him and that odious Mr Merriall, he went out for a constitutional, round the green from all points of which he could see any important development at The Hurst. Riseholme generally was doing the same, and his stroll was interrupted by many agreeable stoppages. It was already known that Lucia and Peppino had arrived, and that servants and luggage had come by the three-twenty, and that Lucia's motor had met the half-past four and returned laden with exciting people. Georgie therefore was in high demand, for he might supply the names of the exciting people, and he had the further information to divulge that Olga was arriving tomorrow, and was lunching with him and dining at her own house. He said nothing about a possible Princess: she might not come, and in that case he knew that there would be a faint suspicion in everybody's mind that he had invented it; whereas if she did, she would no doubt sign his visitors' book for everyone to see.
Feeling ran stormy high against Lucia, and as usual when Riseholme felt a thing deeply there