THE COMPLETE WORKS OF E. F. BENSON (Illustrated Edition). Эдвард Бенсон

said Lucia in an interested voice. Then she recollected herself again. "I had a sort of presentiment, Georgie, when I saw that telegram for Peppino on the table, two days ago, that it was bad news."

      "Curious," said Georgie. "And what delicious fish! How do you always manage to get better things than any of us? It tastes of the sea. And I am so hungry after all my work."

      Lucia went firmly on.

      "I took it to poor Peppino," she said, "and he got quite white. And then — so like him — he thought of me. 'It's bad news, darling,' he said, 'and we've got to help each other to bear it!' "

      "So like Peppino," said Georgie. "Mr Quantock saw him going to the station. Where is he going to sleep tonight?"

      Lucia took a little more fish.

      "In Auntie's house in Brompton Square," she said.

      "So that's where it is!" thought Georgie. If there was a light anywhere in Daisy's house, except in the attics, he would have to go in for a minute, on his return home, and communicate the news.

      "Oh, she had a house there, had she?" he said.

      "Yes, a charming house," said Lucia, "and full, of course, of dear old memories to Peppino. It will be very trying for him, for he used to go there when he was a boy to see Auntie."

      "And has she left it him?" asked Georgie, trying to make his voice sound unconcerned.

      "Yes, and it's a freehold," said Lucia. "That makes it easier to dispose of if Peppino settles to sell it. And beautiful Queen Anne furniture."

      "My dear, how delicious!" said Georgie. "Probably worth a fortune."

      Lucia was certainly rallying from the terrible blow, but she did not allow herself to rally too far, and shook her head sadly.

      "Peppino would hate to have to part with Auntie's things," she said. "So many memories. He can recollect her sitting at the walnut bureau (one of those tall ones, you know, which let down in front, and the handles of the drawers all original), doing her accounts in the morning. And a picture of her with her pearls over the fireplace by Sargent; quite an early one. Some fine Chinese Chippendale chairs in the dining-room. We must try to keep some of the things."

      Georgie longed to ask a hundred questions, but it would not be wise, for Lucia was so evidently enjoying letting these sumptuous details leak out mingled with memories. He was beginning to feel sure that Daisy's cynical suggestion was correct, and that the stricken desolation of Peppino and Lucia cloaked a very substantial inheritance. Bits of exultation kept peeping out, and Lucia kept poking them back.

      "But where will you put all those lovely things, if you sell the house?" he asked. "Your house here is so perfect already."

      "Nothing is settled yet," said Lucia. "Neither he nor I can think of anything but dear Auntie. Such a keen intelligent mind she had when Peppino first remembered her. Very good-looking still in the Sargent picture. And it was all so sudden, when Peppino saw her last she was so full of vigour."

      ("That was the time she bit him," thought Georgie.) Aloud he said: "Of course you must feel it dreadfully. What is the Sargent? A kit-cat or a full length?"

      "Full length, I believe," said Lucia. "I don't know where we could put it here. And a William III whatnot. But of course it is not possible to think about that yet. A glass of port?"

      "I'm going to give you one," said Georgie, "it's just what you want after all your worries and griefs."

      Lucia pushed her glass towards him.

      "Just half a glass," she said. "You are so dear and understanding, Georgie; I couldn't talk to anyone but you, and perhaps it does me good to talk. There is some wonderful port in Auntie's cellar, Peppino says."

      She rose.

      "Let us go into the music-room," she said. "We will talk a little more, and then play our Mozart if I feel up to it."

      "That'll do you good too," said Georgie.

      Lucia felt equal to having more illumination than there had been when she rose out of the shadows before dinner, and they established themselves quite cosily by the fire.

      "There will be a terrible lot of business for Peppino," she said. "Luckily his lawyer is the same firm as Auntie's, and quite a family friend. Whatever Auntie had, so he told us, goes to Peppino, though we haven't really any idea what it is. But with death duties and succession duties, I know we shall have to be prepared to be very poor until they are paid off, and the duties increase so iniquitously in proportion to the inheritance. Then everything in Brompton Square has to be valued, and we have to pay on the entire contents, the very carpets and rugs are priced, and some are beautiful Persians. And then there's the valuer to pay, and all the lawyer's charges. And when all that has been paid and finished, there is the higher supertax."

      "But there's a bigger income," said Georgie.

      "Yes, that's one way of looking at it," said Lucia. "But Peppino says that the charges will be enormous. And there's a beautiful music-room."

      Lucia gave him one of her rather gimlet-like looks.

      "Georgino, I suppose everybody in Riseholme is all agog to know what Peppino has been left. That is so dreadfully vulgar, but I suppose it's natural. Is everybody talking about it?"

      "Well, I have heard it mentioned," said Georgie. "But I don't see why it's vulgar. I'm interested in it myself. It concerns you and Peppino, and what concerns one's friends must be of interest to one."

      "Caro, I know that," said Lucia. "But so much more than the actual money is the responsibility it brings. Peppino and I have all we want for our quiet little needs, and now this great increase of wealth is coming to us — great, that is, compared to our modest little income now — and, as I say, it brings its responsibilities. We shall have to use wisely and without extravagance whatever is left after all these immense expenses have been paid. That meadow at the bottom of the garden, of course, we shall buy at once, so that there will no longer be any fear of its being built over and spoiling the garden. And then perhaps a new telescope for Peppino. But what do I want in Riseholme beyond what I've got? Music and friends, and the power to entertain them, my books and my flowers. Perhaps a library, built on at the end of the wing, where Peppino can be undisturbed, and perhaps every now and then a string-quartet down from London. That will give a great deal of pleasure, and music is more than pleasure, isn't it?"

      Again she turned the gimlet-look onto Georgie.

      "And then there's the house in Brompton Square," she said, "where Auntie was born. Are we to sell that?"

      Georgie guessed exactly what was in her mind. It had been in his too, ever since Lucia had alluded to the beautiful music-room. Her voice had lingered over the beautiful music-room: she had seemed to underline it, to caress it, to appropriate it.

      "I believe you are thinking of keeping the house and partly living there," he said.

      Lucia looked round, as if a hundred eavesdroppers had entered unaware.

      "Hush, Georgie," she said, "not a word must be said about that. But it has occurred to both Peppino and me."

      "But I thought you hated London," he said. "You're always so glad to get back, you find it so common and garish."

      "It is, compared to the exquisite peace and seriousness of our Riseholme," she said, "where there never is a jarring note, at least hardly ever. But there is in London a certain stir and movement which we lack here. In the swim, Georgie, in the middle of things! Perhaps we get too sensitive here where everything is full of harmony and culture, perhaps we are too much sheltered. If I followed my inclination I would never leave our dear Riseholme for a single day. Oh, how easy everything would be if one only followed one's inclination! A morning with my books, an afternoon in my garden, my piano after tea, and a friend like you to come in to dine with my Peppino and me and scold me well, as you'll soon be doing for being so bungling over Mozartino."

      Lucia twirled round the Elizabethan spit that hung in the wide chimney, and again fixed him rather in the style of the Ancient