have something to console her for that terrible fiasco about her Guru. And then, Georgino mio, I will listen to your Debussy. Do not expect anything; if it seems to me formless, I shall say so. But if it seems to me promising, I shall be equally frank. Perhaps it is great; I cannot tell you about that till I have heard it. Let me write my note first."
That was soon done, and Lucia, having sent it by hand, came into the music-room, and drew down the blinds over the window through which the autumn sun was streaming. Very little art, as she had once said, would "stand" daylight; only Shakespeare or Dante or Beethoven and perhaps Bach, could compete with the sun.
Georgie, for his part, would have liked rather more light, but after all Debussy wrote such very odd chords and sequences that it was not necessary to wear his spectacles.
Lucia sat in a high chair near the piano, with her chin in her hand, tremendously erect.
Georgie took off his rings and laid them on the candle-bracket, and run his hands nimbly over the piano.
"Poissons d'or" he said. "Goldfish!"
"Yes; Pesci d'oro," said Lucia, explaining it to Peppino.
Lucia's face changed as the elusive music proceeded. The far-away look died away, and became puzzled; her chin came out of her hand, and the hand it came out of covered her eyes.
Before Georgie had got to the end the answer to her note came, and she sat with it in her hand, which, released from covering her eyes, tried to
