bold is always singing carols all Christmas evening with the choir, and she will be alone.”
“Ah, those carols!” said Lucia, wincing.
“I know: I will provide you with little wads of cotton-wool. Do come and we’ll have just a party of eight. I’ve asked no one yet and perhaps nobody will come. I want you and Peppino, and the rest may come or stop away. Do say you approve.”
Lucia could not yield at once. She had to press her fingers to her forehead.
“So kind of you, Georgie,” she said, “but I must think. Are we doing anything on Christmas night, carissimo? Where's your engagement-book? Go and consult it.”
This was a grand manœuvre, for hardly had Peppino left the room when she started up with a little scream and ran after him.
“Me so stupid,” she cried. “Me put it in smoking-room, and poor caro will look for it ever so long. Back in minute, Georgino.”
Naturally this was perfectly clear to Georgie. She wanted to have a short private consultation with Peppino, and he waited rather hopefully for their return, for Peppino, he felt sure, was bored with this Achilles-altitude[1] of sitting sulking in the tent. They came back wreathed in smiles, and instantly embarked on the question of what to do after dinner. No romps: certainly not, but why not the tableaux again? The question was still under debate when they went in to lunch. It was settled affirmatively during the macaroni, and Lucia said that they all wanted to work her to death, and so get rid of her. They had thought
- ↑ Sic; attitude
