‘That’s true, there doesn’t seem to be much,’ she said. ‘But even then, think of the moral stuffing that I’ve put into myself. A far greater score, Georgie, than to have exposed her, and it must be quite agonising for her to have that hanging over her head. Besides, she can’t help being deeply grateful to me if there are any depths in that poor shallow nature. There may be: we must try to discover them. Take a broader view of it all, Georgie… Oh, and I’ve thought of something fresh! Send round to Mr Wyse for the exhibition your picture of the Landgate, which poor Elizabeth sold. He will certainly hang it and she will see it there. That will round everything off nicely.’

Lucia moved across to the piano and sat down on the treble music stool.

‘Let us forget all about these piccoli disturbi, Georgie,’ she said, ‘and have some music to put us in tune with beauty again. No, you needn’t shut the door: it is so hot, and I am sure that no one else will dream of passing that notice of “Private”, or come in here unasked. Ickle bit of divine Mozartino?’

Lucia found the duet at which she had worked quietly at odd moments.

‘Let us try this,’ she said, ‘though it looks rather diffy. Oh, one thing more, Georgie. I think you and I had better keep those formal notices of rejection from the hanging committee just in case. We might need them some day, though I’m sure I hope we shan’t. But one must be careful in dealing with that sort of woman. That’s all I think. Now let us breathe harmony and loveliness again. Uno, due… pom.’

Chapter 6

It was a mellow morning of October, the season, as Lucia reflected, of mists and mellow fruitfulness, wonderful John Keats. There was no doubt about the mists, for there had been several sea-fogs in the English Channel, and the mellow fruitfulness of the garden at Mallards was equally indisputable. But now the fruitfulness of that sunny plot concerned Lucia far more than it had done during August and September, for she had taken Mallards for another month (Adele Brixton having taken the Hurst, Riseholme, for three), not on those original Shylock terms of fifteen guineas a week, and no garden-produce – but of twelve guineas a week, and all the garden-produce. It was a wonderful year for tomatoes: there were far more than a single widow could possibly eat, and Lucia, instead of selling them, constantly sent little presents of them to Georgie and Major Benjy. She had sent one basket of them to Miss Mapp, but these had been returned and Miss Mapp had written an effusive note saying that they would be wasted on her. Lucia had applauded that; it showed a very proper spirit.