Lucia had hardly entered when with a final bray the gramophone came to the end of its record, and Olga swept a great curtsey, threw down her scarf, and stepped off the dais. Georgie was sitting on the floor close to it, and jumped up, leading the applause. For a moment, though several heads had been turned at Lucia’s entrance, nobody took the slightest notice of her, indeed, the first apparently to recognize her presence was her hostess, who just kissed her hand to her, and then continued talking to Georgie. Then Olga threaded her way through the besprinkled floor, and came up to her.
“How wise you were to miss that very poor performance,” she said. “But Mr Georgie insisted that I should make a fool of myself.”
“Indeed, I am sorry not to have been here for it,” said Lucia in her most stately manner. “It seemed to me very far from being a poor performance, very far indeed. Caro mio, you remember Miss Bracely.”
“Si, si molto bene,” said Peppino, shaking hands.
“Ah, and you talk Italian,” said Olga. “Che bella lingua! I wish I knew it.”
“You have a very good pronunciation,” said Lucia.
“Tante grazie. You know everyone here of course. Now, what shall we do next? Clumps or charades or what? Ah, there are some cigarettes. Won’t you have one?”
Lucia gave a little scream of dismay.
“A cigarette for me? That would be a very odd thing,” she said. Then relenting, as she remembered that Olga must be excused for her ignorance, she added: “You see I never smoke. Never.”
“Oh, you should learn,” said Olga. “Now let’s play clumps. Does everyone know clumps? If they don’t they will find out. Or shall we dance? There’s the gramophone to dance to.”
Lucia put up her hands in playful petition.
“Oh please, no gramophone!” she said.
“Oh, don’t you like it?” said Olga. “It’s so horrible that I adore it, as I adore dreadful creatures in an aquarium. But I think we won’t dance till after supper. We’ll have supper extremely soon, partly because I am dying of famine, and partly because people are sillier afterwards. But just one game of clumps first. Let’s see; there are but enough for four clumps. Please make four clumps everybody, and—and will you and two more go out with Mr Georgie, Mrs Lucas? We will be as quick as we can, and we won’t think of anything that will make Mr Georgie blush. Oh, there he is! He heard!”
Olga’s intense enjoyment of her own party was rapidly galvanizing everybody into a much keener gaiety than was at all usual in Riseholme, where as a rule, the hostess was somewhat anxious and watchful, fearing that her guests were not amusing themselves, and that the sandwiches would give out. There was a sit-down supper when the clumps were over (Mrs Quantock had been the first to guess Beethoven’s little toe on his right foot, which made Lucia wince) and there were not enough men and maids to wait, and so people foraged for themselves, and Olga paraded up and down the room with a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a dish of lobster-salad in the other. She sat for a minute or two first at one table and then at another, and asked silly riddles, and sent to the kitchen for a ham, and put out all the electric light by mistake, when she meant to turn on some more. Then when supper was over they all took their seats back into the music-room and played musical chairs, at the end of which Mrs Quantock was left in with Olga, and it was believed that she said “Damn,” when Mrs Quantock won. Georgie was in charge of the gramophone which supplied deadly music, quite forgetting that this was agony to Lucia, and not even being aware when she made a sign to Peppino, and went away having a cobbler’s at-home all to herself. Nobody noticed when Saturday ended and Sunday began, for Georgie and Colonel Boucher were cock-fighting on the floor, Georgie screaming out “How tarsome” when he was upset, and Colonel Boucher very red in the face saying “Haw, hum. Never thought I should romp again like this. By Jove, most amusing!” Georgie was the last to leave and did not notice till he was half-way home that he had a ham-frill adorning his shirt front. He hoped that it had been Olga who put it there, when he had to walk blind-fold across the floor and try to keep in a straight line.
Riseholme got up rather late next morning, and had to hurry over its breakfast in order to be in time for church. There was a slight feeling of reaction abroad, and a sense of having been young and amused, and of waking now to the fact of church-bells and middle-age. Colonel Boucher singing the bass of “A few more years shall roll,” felt his mind instinctively wandering to the cock-fight the evening before, and depressedly recollecting that a considerable number of years had rolled already. Mrs Weston, with her bath-chair in the aisle and Tommy Luton to hand her hymn-book and prayer-book as she required, looked sideways at Mrs Quantock, and thought how strange it was that Daisy, so few hours ago, had been racing round a solitary chair with Georgie’s finger on the gramophone, while Georgie, singing tenor by Colonel Boucher’s ample side, saw with keen annoyance that there was a stain of tarnished silver on his forefinger, accounted for by the fact that after breakfast he had been cleaning the frame which held the photograph of Olga Bracely and had been astonished to hear the church-bells beginning. Another conducement to depression on his part was the fact that he was lunching with Lucia, and he could not imagine what Lucia’s attitude would be towards the party last night. She had come to church rather late, having no use for the General Confession, and sang with stony fervour. She wore her usual church-face, from which nothing whatever could be gathered. A great many stealthy glances right and left from everybody failed to reveal the presence of their hostess of last night. Georgie, in particular, was sorry for this; he would have liked her to show that capacity for respectable seriousness which her presence at church that morning would have implied; while Lucia, in particular, was glad of this, for it confirmed her view that Miss Bracely was not, nor could ever be, a true Riseholmite. She had thought as much last night, and had said so to Peppino. She proposed to say the same to Georgie today.
Then came a stupefying surprise as Mr Rumbold walked from his stall to the pulpit for the sermon. Generally he gave out the number of the short anthem which accompanied this manoeuvre, but today he made no such announcement. A discreet curtain hid the organist from the congregation, and veiled his gymnastics with the stops and his antic dancing on the pedals, and now when Mr Rumbold moved from his stall, there came from the organ the short introduction to Bach’s “Mein Glaubige Herz,” which even Lucia had allowed to be nearly “equal” to Beethoven. And then came the voice….
The reaction after the romp last night went out like a snuffed candle at this divine singing, which was charged with the joyfulness of some heavenly child. It grew low and soft, it rang out again, it lingered and tarried, it quickened into the ultimate triumph. No singing could have been simpler, but that simplicity could only have sprung from the highest art. But now the art was wholly unconscious; it was part of the singer who but praised God as the thrushes do. She who had made gaiety last night, made worship this morning.
As they sat down for the discourse, Colonel Boucher discreetly whispered to Georgie “By Jove.” And Georgie rather more audibly answered “Adorable.” Mrs Weston drew a half-a-crown from her purse instead of her usual shilling, to be ready for the offertory, and Mrs Quantock wondered if she was too old to learn to sing.
Georgie found Lucia very full of talk that day at luncheon, and was markedly more Italian than usual. Indeed she put down an Italian grammar when he entered the drawing-room, and covered it up with the essays of Antonio Caporelli. This possibly had some connection with the fact that she had encouraged Olga last night with regard to her pronunciation.
“Ben arrivato, Georgio,” she said. “Ho finito il libro di Antonio Caporelli quanta memento. E magnifico!”
Georgie thought she had finished it long ago, but perhaps he was mistaken. The sentence flew off Lucia’s tongue as if it was perched there all quite ready.
“Sono un poco fatigata dopo il—dear me how rusty I am getting in Italian for I can’t remember the word,” she went on. “Anyhow I am a little tired after last night. A delightful little party, was it not? It was clever of Miss Bracely