"Dear Mrs Weston," she said, "you must really tell me at once when the
happy day will be. Peppino and I are thinking of going to the
Riviera----"
Georgie broke in.
"You shan't do anything of the kind," he said. "What's to happen to us?
'Oo very selfish, Lucia."
The conversation broke up again into duets and trios, and Lucia could
have a private conversation with her host. But half-an-hour ago, so
Georgie reflected, they had all been walking round each other like dogs
going on tiptoe with their tails very tightly curled, and growling
gently to themselves, aware that a hasty snap, or the breach of the
smallest observance of etiquette, might lead to a general quarrel. But
now they all had the reward of their icy politenesses: there was no
more ice, except on their plates, and the politeness was not a matter
of etiquette. At present, they might be considered a republic, but no
one knew what was going to happen after dinner. Not a word had been
said about the tableaux.
Lucia dropped her voice as she spoke to him, and put in a good deal of
Italian for fear she might be overheard.
"_Non cognosce_ anybody?" she asked. "I _tablieri_, I mean.
And are we all to sit in the _aula_, while the _salone_ is
being got ready?"
"_Si_," said Georgie. "There's a fire. When you go out, keep them
there. I _domestichi_ are making _salone_ ready."
"_Molto bene_.
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