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

would gloat over me for having failed. It won't do. I must be more manly about it all somehow. I must be like Major Benjy and say "Damn the woman! Faugh!" and have a drink. But I feel sick at the idea of going back to Riseholme alone . . . I wish I had eyebrows like a paste-brush, and could say damn properly.'

      With a view to being more manly he poured himself out a very small whisky and soda, and his eye fell on a few letters lying for him on the table, which must have come that morning. There was one with the Riseholme postmark, and the envelope was of that very bright blue which he always used. His own stationery evidently, of which he had left a supply, without charge, for the use of his tenant. He opened it, and behold there was dawn breaking on his dark life, for Colonel Cresswell wanted to know if he had any thoughts of selling his house. He was much taken by Riseholme, his sister had bought The Hurst, and he would like to be near her. Would Georgie therefore let him have a line about this as soon as possible, for there was another house, Mrs Quantock's, about which he would enter into negotiations, if there was no chance of getting Georgie's . . .

      The revulsion of feeling was almost painful. Georgie had another whisky and soda at once, not because he was depressed, but because he was so happy. 'But I mustn't make a habit of it,' he thought, as he seized his pen.

      Georgie's first impulse when he had written his letter to Colonel Cresswell was to fly round to Mallards with this wonderful news, but now he hesitated. Some hitch might arise, the price Colonel Cresswell proposed might not come up to his expectations, though — God knew — he would not dream of haggling over any reasonable offer. Lucia would rejoice at the chance of his staying in Tilling but she did not deserve to have such a treat of pleasurable expectation for the present. Besides, though he had been manly enough to reject with scorn the wiles of the devil who had suggested the seduction of Cadman, he thought he would tease her a little even if his dream came true. He had often told her that if he was rich enough he would have a flat in London, and now, if this sale of his house came off, he would pretend that he was not meaning to live in Tilling at all, but would live in town, and he would see how she would take that. It would be her turn to be hurt, and serve her right. So instead of interrupting the roulades of Mozart that were pouring from the window of the garden-room, he walked briskly down to the High Street to see how Tilling was taking the news that it would have Lucia always with it, if her purchase of Grebe had become public property. If not, he would have the pleasure of disseminating it.

      There was a hint of seafaring about Georgie's costume as befitted one who had lately spent so much time on the pier at Folkestone. He had a very nautical-looking cap, with a black shining brim, a dark-blue double-breasted coat, white trousers and smart canvas shoes: really he might have been supposed to have come up to Tilling in his yacht, and have landed to see the town . . . A piercing whistle from the other side of the street showed him that his appearance had at once attracted attention, and there was Irene planted with her easel in the middle of the pavement, and painting a row of flayed carcasses that hung in the butcher's shop. Rembrandt had better look out . . .

      'Avast there, Georgie,' she cried. 'Home is the sailor, home from sea. Come and talk.'

      This was rather more attention than Georgie had anticipated, but as Irene was quite capable of shouting nautical remarks after him if he pretended not to hear, he tripped across the street to her.

      'Have you seen Lucia, Commodore?' she said. 'And has she told you?'

      'About her buying Grebe?' asked Georgie. 'Oh, yes.'

      'That's all right then. She told me not to mention it till she'd seen you. Mapp's popping in and out of the shops, and I simply must be the first to tell her. Don't cut in in front of me, will you? Oh, by the way, have you done any sketching at Folkestone?'

      'One or two,' said Georgie. 'Nothing very much.'

      'Nonsense. Do let me come and see them. I love your handling. Just cast your eye over this and tell me what's wrong with — There she is. Hi! Mapp!'

      Elizabeth, like Georgie, apparently thought it more prudent to answer that summons and avoid further public proclamation of her name, and came hurrying across the street.

      'Good-morning, Irene mine,' she said. 'What a beautiful picture! All the poor skinned piggies in a row, or are they sheep? Back again, Mr Georgie? How we've missed you. And how do you think dear Lulu is looking after her illness?'

      'Mapp, there's news for you,' said Irene, remembering the luncheon-party yesterday. 'You must guess: I shall tease you. It's about your Lulu. Three guesses.'

      'Not a relapse, I hope?' said Elizabeth brightly.

      'Quite wrong. Something much nicer. You'll enjoy it tremendously.'

      'Another of those beautiful musical parties?' asked Elizabeth. 'Or has she skipped a hundred times before breakfast?'

      'No, much nicer,' said Irene. 'Heavenly for us all.'

      A look of apprehension had come over Elizabeth's face, as an awful idea occurred to her.

      'Dear one, give over teasing,' she said. 'Tell me.'

      'She's not going away at the end of the month,' said Irene. 'She's bought Grebe.'

      Blank dismay spread over Elizabeth's face.

      'Oh, what a joy!' she said. 'Lovely news.'

      She hurried off to Wasters, too much upset even to make Diva, who was coming out of Twistevant's, a partner in her joy. Only this morning she had been consulting her calendar and observing that there were only fifteen days more before Tilling was quit of Lulu, and now at a moderate estimate there might be at least fifteen years of her. Then she found she could not bear the weight of her joy alone and sped back after Diva.

      'Diva dear, come in for a minute,' she said. 'I've heard something.'

      Diva looked with concern at that lined and agitated face.

      'What's the matter?' she said. 'Nothing serious?'

      'Oh no, lovely news,' she said with bitter sarcasm. 'Tilling will rejoice. She's not going away. She's going to stop here for ever.'

      There was no need to ask who 'she' was. For weeks Lucia had been 'she'. If you meant Susan Wyse, or Diva or Irene, you said so. But 'she' was Lucia.

      'I suspected as much,' said Diva. 'I know she had an order to view Grebe.'

      Elizabeth, in a spasm of exasperation, banged the door of Wasters so violently after she and Diva had entered, that the house shook and a note leaped from the wire letter-box on to the floor.

      'Steady on with my front door,' said Diva, 'or there'll be some dilapidations to settle.'

      Elizabeth took no notice of this petty remark, and picked up the note. The handwriting was unmistakable, for Lucia's study of Homer had caused her (subconsciously or not) to adopt a modified form of Greek script, and she made her 'a' like alpha and her 'e' like epsilon. At the sight of it Elizabeth suffered a complete loss of self-control, she held the note on high as if exposing a relic to the gaze of pious worshippers, and made a low curtsey to it.

      'And this is from Her,' she said. 'Oh, how kind of Her Majesty to write to me in her own hand with all those ridiculous twiddles. Not content with speaking Italian quite perfectly, she must also write in Greek. I dare say she talks it beautifully too.'

      'Come, pull yourself together, Elizabeth,' said Diva.

      'I am not aware that I am coming to bits, dear,' said Elizabeth, opening the note with the very tips of her fingers, as if it had been written by someone infected with plague or at least influenza. 'But let me see what Her Majesty says . . . "Dearest Liblib" . . . the impertinence of it! Or is it Riseholme humour?'

      'Well, you call her Lulu,' said Diva. 'Do get on.'

      Elizabeth frowned with the difficulty of deciphering this crabbed handwriting.

      ' "Now that I am quite free of infection," ' she read — (Infection indeed. She never had flu at all) — ' "of infection, I can receive my friends again, and hope so much you will lunch with me tomorrow. I hasten also to tell you of my change of plans, for I have so fallen in love with