That was an illuminating thought; it certainly seemed tremendously like Lucia at her very best.

‘I believe you’re right. She’s cleverer than all of us put together,’ said Georgie. ‘I shall go over to Daisy at once and sound her. Thank God, my shoes are better.’

It was a gloomy queen that Georgie found, a Queen of Sheba with no spirit left in her, but only a calmness of despair.

‘It went worse than ever this morning,’ she remarked. ‘And I dare say we’ve not touched bottom yet. Georgie, what is to be done?’

It was more delicate to give Daisy the chance of abdicating herself.

‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said he. ‘But something’s got to be done. I wish I could think what.’

Daisy was rent with pangs of jealousy and of consciousness of her supreme impotence. She took half a glass of port, which her regime told her was deadly poison.

‘Georgie! Do you think there’s the slightest chance of getting Lucia to be the Queen and managing the whole affair?’ she asked quaveringly.

‘We might try,’ said Georgie. ‘The Bouchers are for it, and everybody else as well, I think.’

‘Well, come quick then, or I may repent,’ said Daisy.

Lucia had seen them coming, and sat down at her piano. She had not time to open her music, and so began the first movement of the ‘Moonlight’ Sonata.

‘Ah, how nice!’ she said. ‘Georgie, I’m going to practise all afternoon. Poor fingers so rusty! And did you have a lovely rehearsal this morning? Speech going well, Daisy? I’m sure it is.’

‘Couldn’t remember a word,’ said Daisy. ‘Lucia, we all want to turn the whole thing over to you, Queen and all. Will you –’

‘Please, Lucia,’ said Georgie.

Lucia looked from one to the other in amazement.

‘But, dear things, how can I?’ she said. ‘I shan’t be here to begin with, I shall be at Tilling. And then all the trouble you’ve been taking, Daisy. I couldn’t. Impossible. Cruel.’

‘We can’t do it at all without you,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘So that’s impossible too. Please, Lucia.’

Lucia seemed quite bewildered by these earnest entreaties.

‘Can’t you come back for the fête?’ said Georgie. ‘Rehearse all day, every day, till the end of the month. Then go to Tilling, and you and I will return just for the week of the fête.’

Lucia seemed to be experiencing a dreadful struggle with herself.

‘Dear Georgie, dear Daisy, you’re asking a great sacrifice of me,’ she said. ‘I had planned my days here so carefully. My music, my Dante: all my lessons! I shall have to give them all up, you know, if I’m to get this fête into any sort of shape. No time for anything else.’

A miserable two-part fugue of ‘Please, Lucia. It’s the only chance. We can’t do it unless you’re Queen,’ suddenly burst into the happy strains of ‘It is good of you. Oh, thank you, Lucia,’ and the day was won.