He blew the bugle to rally all the good-nature for which
he was capable.
"No, I have been painting lately," he said, "at least I have been
trying to. I'm doing a little sketch of Miss Bracely at her piano,
which I want to give her on Christmas Day. But it's so difficult. I
wish I had brought it round to ask your advice, but you would only have
screamed with laughter at it. It's a dreadful failure: much worse than
those I gave you for your birthdays. Fancy your keeping them still in
your lovely music-room. Send them to the pantry, and I'll do something
better for you next."
Lucia, try as she might, could not help being rather touched by that.
There they all were: "Golden Autumn Woodland," "Bleak December,"
"Yellow Daffodils," and "Roses of Summer."...
"Or have them blacked over by the boot-boy," she said. "Take them down,
Georgie, and let me send them to be blacked."
This was much better: there was playfulness behind the sarcasm now,
which peeped out from it. He made the most of that.
"We'll do that presently," he said. "Just now I want to engage you and
Peppino to dine with me on Christmas Day. Now don't be tarsome and say
you're engaged. But one can never tell with you."
"A party?" asked Lucia suspiciously.
"Well, I thought we would have just one of our old evenings together
again," said Georgie, feeling himself remarkably clever. "We'll have
the Quantocks, shan't we, and Colonel and Mrs Colonel, and you and
Peppino, and me, and Mrs Rumbold? That'll make eight, which is more
than Foljambe likes, but she must lump it.
Pages:
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311