They waited, and waited and
waited, much as she had waited for a cigarette the evening before. She
looked at the piano, and there was a comfortable murmur from her
audience. She looked at Lucia, who gave a great gasp, and said nothing
at all. She was the only person present who was standing now except her
hostess, and Mrs Weston's gardener, who had wheeled his mistress's
chair into an admirable position for hearing. She was not too well
pleased, but after all....
"Would you like me to sing?" she asked Lucia. "Yes? Ah, there's a copy
of Siegfried. Do you play?"
Lucia could not smile any more than she was smiling already.
"Is it very diffy?" she asked. "Could I read it, Georgie? Shall I try?"
She slid onto the music-stool.
"Me to begin?" she asked, finding that Olga had opened the book at the
salutation of Brunnhilde, which Lucia had practised so diligently all
the morning.
She got no answer. Olga standing by her, had assumed a perfectly
different aspect. For her gaiety, her lightness was substituted some
air of intense concentrated seriousness which Lucia did not understand
at all. She was looking straight in front of her, gathering herself in,
and paying not the smallest attention to Lucia or anybody else.
"One, two," said Lucia. "Three. Now," and she plunged wildly into a sea
of demi-semi-quavers. Olga had just opened her mouth, but shut it
again.
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