Pink irascible Robert, prone to throw his food about his plate, if it
did not commend itself to him, felt in an extremely good natured mood
that same night after dinner, for the Guru had again made a visit to
the kitchen with the result that instead of a slab of pale dead codfish
being put before him after he had eaten some tepid soup, there appeared
a delicious little fish-curry. The Guru had behaved with great tact; he
had seen the storm gathering on poor Robert's face, as he sipped the
cool effete concoction and put down his spoon again with a splash in
his soup plate, and thereupon had bowed and smiled and scurried away to
the kitchen to intercept the next abomination. Then returning with the
little curry he explained that it was entirely for Robert, since those
who sought the Way did not indulge in hot sharp foods, and so he had
gobbled it up to the very last morsel.
In consequence when the Guru salaamed very humbly, and said that with
gracious permission of beloved lady and kind master he would go and
meditate in his room, and had shambled away in his red slippers, the
discussion which Robert had felt himself obliged to open with his wife,
on the subject of having an unknown Indian staying with them for an
indefinite period, was opened in a much more amicable key than it would
have been on a slice of codfish.
"Well, now, about this Golliwog--haha--I should say Guru, my dear," he
began, "what's going to happen?"
Daisy Quantock drew in her breath sharply and winced at this
irreverence, but quickly remembered that she must always be sending out
messages of love, north, east, south, and west. So she sent a rather
spiky one in the direction of her husband who was sitting due east, so
that it probably got to him at once, and smiled the particular hard
firm smile which was an heirloom inherited from her last rule of life.
"No one knows," she said brightly. "Even the Guides can't tell where
and when a Guru may be called."
"Then do you propose he should stop here till he's called somewhere
else?"
She continued smiling.
"I don't propose anything," she said. "It's not in my hands."
Under the calming influence of the fish curry, Robert remained still
placid.
"He's a first-rate cook anyhow," he said. "Can't you engage him as
that? Call to the kitchen, you know."
"Darling!" said Mrs Quantock, sending out more love. But she had a
quick temper, and indeed the two were outpoured together, like hot and
cold taps turned on in a bath. The pellucid stream of love served to
keep her temper moderately cool.
"Well, ask him," suggested Mr Quantock, "as you say, you never can tell
where a Guru may be called. Give him forty pounds a year and beer
money."
"Beer!" began Mrs Quantock, when she suddenly remembered Georgie's
story about Rush and the Guru and the brandy-bottle, and stopped.
"Yes, dear, I said 'beer,'" remarked Robert a little irritably, "and in
any case I insist that you dismiss your present cook. You only took her
because she was a Christian Scientist, and you've left that little
sheep-fold now. You used to talk about false claims I remember. Well
her claim to be a cook is the falsest I ever heard of. I'd sooner take
my chance with an itinerant organ grinder. But that fish-curry tonight
and that other thing last night, that's what I mean by good eating."
The thought even of good food always calmed Robert's savage breast; it
blew upon him as the wind on an AEolian harp hung in the trees, evoking
faint sweet sounds.
"I'm sure, my dear," he said, "that I shall be willing to fall in with
any pleasant arrangement about your Guru, but it really isn't
unreasonable in me to ask what sort of arrangement you propose. I
haven't a word to say against him, especially when he goes to the
kitchen; I only want to know if he is going to stop here a night or two
or a year or two. Talk to him about it tomorrow with my love. I wonder
if he can make bisque soup."
Daisy Quantock carried quite a quantity of material for reflection
upstairs with her, then she went to bed, pausing a moment opposite the
Guru's door, from inside of which came sounds of breathing so deep that
it sounded almost like snoring. But she seemed to detect a timbre of
spirituality about it which convinced her that he was holding high
communion with the Guides. It was round him that her thoughts centred,
he was the tree through the branches of which they scampered
chattering.
Her first and main interest in him was sheer Guruism, for she was one
of those intensely happy people who pass through life in ecstatic
pursuit of some idea which those who do not share it call a fad. Well
might poor Robert remember the devastation of his home when Daisy,
after the perusal of a little pamphlet which she picked up on a
book-stall called "The Uric Acid Monthly," came to the shattering
conclusion that her buxom frame consisted almost entirely of
waste-products which must be eliminated. For a greedy man the situation
was frankly intolerable, for when he continued his ordinary diet (this
was before the cursed advent of the Christian Science cook) she kept
pointing to his well-furnished plate, and told him that every atom of
that beef or mutton and potatoes, turned from the moment he swallowed it
into chromogens and toxins, and that his apparent appetite was merely the
result of fermentation. For herself her platter was an abominable mess
of cheese and protein-powder and apples and salad-oil, while round her,
like saucers of specimen seeds were ranged little piles of nuts and
pine-branches, which supplied body-building material, and which she
weighed out with scrupulous accuracy, in accordance with the directions
of the "Uric Acid Monthly." Tea and coffee were taboo, since they
flooded the blood with purins, and the kitchen boiler rumbled day and
night to supply the rivers of boiling water with which (taken in sips)
she inundated her system. Strange gaunt females used to come down from
London, with small parcels full of tough food that tasted of
travelling-bags and contained so much nutrition that a port-manteau
full of it would furnish the daily rations of any army. Luckily even
her iron constitution could not stand the strain of such ideal living
for long, and her growing anaemia threatened to undermine a
constitution seriously impaired by the precepts of perfect health. A
course of beef-steaks and other substantial viands loaded with uric
acid restored her to her former vigour.
Thus reinforced, she plunged with the same energy as she had devoted to
repelling uric acid into the embrace of Christian Science. The
inhumanity of that sect towards both herself and others took complete
possession of her, and when her husband complained on a bitter January
morning that his smoking-room was like an icehouse, because the
housemaid had forgotten to light the fire, she had no touch of pity for
him, since she knew that there was no such thing as cold or heat or
pain, and therefore you could not feel cold. But now, since, according
to the new creed, such things as uric acid, chromogens and purins had
no existence, she could safely indulge in decent viands again. But her
unhappy husband was not a real gainer in this respect, for while he
ate, she tirelessly discoursed to him on the new creed, and asked him
to recite with her the True Statement of Being. And on the top of that
she dismissed the admirable cook, and engaged the miscreant from whom
he suffered still, though Christian Science, which had allowed her cold
to make so long a false claim on her, had followed the uric-acid fad
into the limbo of her discarded beliefs.
But now once more she had temporarily discovered the secret of life in
the teachings of the Guru, and it was, as has been mentioned, sheer
Guruism that constituted the main attraction of the new creed. That
then being taken for granted, she turned her mind to certain
side-issues, which to a true Riseholmite were of entrancing interest.
She felt a strong suspicion that Lucia contemplated annexing her Guru
altogether, for otherwise she would not have returned so enthusiastic a
response to her note, nor have sent Georgie to deliver it, nor have
professed so violent an interest in the Guru. What then was the
correctly diabolical policy to pursue? Should Daisy Quantock refuse to
take him to Mrs Lucas altogether, with a message of regret that he did
not feel himself sent? Even if she did this, did she feel herself
strong enough to throw down the gauntlet (in the shape of the Guru)
and, using him as the attraction, challenge darling Lucia to mutual
combat, in order to decide who should be the leader of all that was
advanced and cultured in Riseholme society? Still following that
ramification of this policy, should she bribe Georgie over to her own
revolutionary camp, by promising him instruction from the Guru? Or
following a less dashing line, should she take darling Lucia and
Georgie into the charmed circle, and while retaining her own right of
treasure trove, yet share it with them in some inner ring, dispensing
the Guru to them, if they were good, in small doses?
Mrs Quantock's mind resembled in its workings the manoeuvres of a moth
distracted by the glory of several bright lights. It dashed at one, got
slightly singed, and forgetting all about that turned its attention to
the second, and the third, taking headers into each in turn, without
deciding which, on the whole, was the most enchanting of those
luminaries. So, in order to curb the exuberance of these frenzied
excursions she got a half sheet of paper, and noted down the
alternatives that she must choose from.
"(I) Shall I keep him entirely to myself?
"(II) Shall I run him for all he is worth, and leave out L?
"(III) Shall I get G on my side?
"(IV) Shall I give L and G bits?"
She paused a moment: then remembering that he had voluntarily helped
her very pretty housemaid to make the beds that morning, saying that
his business (like the Prince of Wales's) was to serve, she added:
"(V) Shall I ask him to be my cook?"
For a few seconds the brightness of her eager interest was dimmed as
the unworthy suspicion occurred to her that perhaps the prettiness of
her housemaid had something to do with his usefulness in the bedrooms,
but she instantly dismissed it. There was the bottle of brandy, too,
which he had ordered from Rush's. When she had begged him to order
anything he wanted and cause it to be put down to her account, she had
not actually contemplated brandy. Then remembering that one of the most
necessary conditions for progress in Yoga, was that the disciple should
have complete confidence in the Guru, she chased that also out of her
mind. But still, even when the lines of all possible policies were
written down, she could come to no decision, and putting her paper by
her bed, decided to sleep over it. The rhythmical sounds of hallowed
breathing came steadily from next door, and she murmured "Om, Om," in
time with them.
The hours of the morning between breakfast and lunch were the time
which the inhabitants of Riseholme chiefly devoted to spying on each
other. They went about from shop to shop on household businesses,
occasionally making purchases which they carried away with them in
little paper parcels with convenient loops of string, but the real
object of these excursions was to see what everybody else was doing,
and learn what fresh interests had sprung up like mushrooms during the
night. Georgie would be matching silks at the draper's, and very
naturally he would carry them from the obscurity of the interior to the
door in order to be certain about the shades, and keep his eye on the
comings and goings in the street, and very naturally Mr Lucas on his
way to the market gardener's to enquire whether he had yet received the
bulbs from Holland, would tell him that Lucia had received the
piano-arrangement of the Mozart trio. Georgie for his part would mention
that Hermy and Ursy were expected that evening, and Peppino enriched by
this item would "toddle on," as his phrase went, to meet and exchange
confidences with the next spy. He had noticed incidentally that Georgie
carried a small oblong box with hard corners, which, perfectly
correctly, he conjectured to be cigarettes for Hermy and Ursy, since
Georgie never smoked.
"Well, I must be toddling on," he said, after identifying Georgie's box
of cigarettes, and being rather puzzled by a bulge in Georgie's pocket.
"You'll be looking in some time this morning, perhaps."
Georgie had not been quite sure that he would (for he was very busy
owing to the arrival of his sisters, and the necessity of going to Mr
Holroyd's, in order that that artist might accurately match the shade
of his hair with a view to the expensive toupet), but the mention of
the arrival of the Mozart now decided him. He intended anyhow before he
went home for lunch to stroll past The Hurst, and see if he did not
hear--to adopt a mixed metaphor--the sound of the diligent practice of
that classical morsel going on inside. Probably the soft pedal would be
down, but he had marvellously acute hearing, and he would be very much
surprised if he did not hear the recognisable chords, and even more
surprised if, when they came to practise the piece together, Lucia did
not give him to understand that she was reading it for the first time.
He had already got a copy, and had practised his part last night, but
then he was in the superior position of not having a husband who would
inadvertently tell on him! Meantime it was of the first importance to
get that particular shade of purple silk that had none of that
"tarsome" magenta-tint in it. Meantime also, it was of even greater
importance to observe the movements of Riseholme.
Just opposite was the village green, and as nobody was quite close to
him Georgie put on his spectacles, which he could whisk off in a
moment. It was these which formed that bulge in his pocket which
Peppino had noticed, but the fact of his using spectacles at all was a
secret that would have to be profoundly kept for several years yet. But
as there was no one at all near him, he stealthily adjusted them on his
small straight nose. The morning train from town had evidently come in,
for there was a bustle of cabs about the door of the Ambermere Arms,
and a thing that thrilled him to the marrow was the fact that Lady
Ambermere's motor was undoubtedly among them. That must surely mean
that Lady Ambermere herself was here, for when poor thin Miss Lyall,
her companion, came in to Riseholme to do shopping, or transact such
business as the majestic life at The Hall required, she always came on
foot, or in very inclement weather in a small two-wheeled cart like a
hip-bath. At this moment, steeped in conjecture, who should appear,
walking stiffly, with her nose in the air, as if suspecting, and not
choosing to verify, some faint unpleasant odour, but Lady Ambermere
herself, coming from the direction of The Hurst.... Clearly she must
have got there after Peppino had left, or he would surely have
mentioned the fact that Lady Ambermere had been at The Hurst, if she
_had_ been at The Hurst. It is true that she was only coming from
the direction of The Hurst, but Georgie put into practice, in his
mental processes Darwin's principle, that in order to observe usefully,
you must have a theory. Georgie's theory was that Lady Ambermere had
been at The Hurst just for a minute or two, and hastily put his
spectacles in his pocket. With the precision of a trained mind he also
formed the theory that some business had brought Lady Ambermere into
Riseholme, and that taking advantage of her presence there, she had
probably returned a verbal answer to Lucia's invitation to her
garden-party, which she would have received by the first post this
morning. He was quite ready to put his theory to the test when Lady
Ambermere had arrived at the suitable distance for his conveniently
observing her, and for taking off his hat. She always treated him like
a boy, which he liked. The usual salutation passed.
"I don't know where my people are," said Lady Ambermere majestically.
"Have you seen my motor?"
"Yes, dear lady, it's in at your own arms," said Georgie brightly.
"Happy motor!"
If Lady Ambermere unbent to anybody, she unbent to Georgie. He was of
quite good family, because his mother had been a Bartlett and a second
cousin of her deceased husband. Sometimes when she talked to Georgie
she said "we," implying thereby his connection with the aristocracy,
and this gratified Georgie nearly as much as did her treatment of him
as being quite a boy still. It was to him, as a boy still, that she
answered.
"Well, the happy motor, you little rascal, must come to my arms instead
of being at them," she said with the quick wit for which Riseholme
pronounced her famous. "Fancy being able to see my motor at that
distance. Young eyes!"
It was really young spectacles, but Georgie did not mind that. In fact,
he would not have corrected the mistake for the world.
"Shall I run across and fetch it for you?" he asked.
"In a minute. Or whistle on your fingers like a vulgar street boy,"
said Lady Ambermere. "I'm sure you know how to."
Georgie had not the slightest idea, but with the courage of youth,
presuming, with the prudence of middle-age, that he would not really be
called upon to perform so unimaginable a feat, he put two fingers up to
his mouth.
"Here goes then!" he said, greatly daring. (He knew perfectly well that
the dignity of Lady Ambermere would not permit rude vulgar whistling,
of which he was hopelessly incapable, to summon her motor. She made a
feint of stopping her ears with her hands.)
"Don't do anything of the kind," she said. "In a minute you shall walk
with me across to the Arms, but tell me this first. I have just been to
say to our good Mrs Lucas that very likely I will look in at her
garden-party on Friday, if I have nothing else to do. But who is this
wonderful creature she is expecting? Is it an Indian conjurer? If so, I
should like to see him, because when Ambermere was in Madras I remember
one coming to the Residency who had cobras and that sort of thing. I
told her I didn't like snakes, and she said there shouldn't be any. In
fact, it was all rather mysterious, and she didn't at present know if
he was coming or not. I only said, 'No snakes: I insist on no snakes.'"
Georgie relieved her mind about the chance of there being snakes, and
gave a short _precis_ of the ascertained habits of the Guru,
laying special stress on his high-caste.
"Yes, some of these Brahmins are of very decent family," admitted Lady
Ambermere. "I was always against lumping all dark-skinned people
together and calling them niggers. When we were at Madras I was famed
for my discrimination."
They were walking across the green as Lady Ambermere gave vent to these
liberal sentiments, and Georgie even without the need of his spectacles
could see Peppino, who had spied Lady Ambermere from the door of the
market-gardener's, hurrying down the street, in order to get a word
with her before "her people" drove her back to The Hall.
"I came into Riseholme today to get rooms at the Arms for Olga
Bracely," she observed.
"The prima-donna?" asked Georgie breathless with excitement.
"Yes; she is coming to stay at the Arms for two nights with Mr
Shuttleworth."
"Surely--" began Georgie.
"No, it is all right, he is her husband, they were married last week,"
said Lady Ambermere. "I should have thought that Shuttleworth was a
good enough name, as the Shuttleworths are cousins of the late lord,
but she prefers to call herself Miss Bracely. I don't dispute her right
to call herself what she pleases: far from it, though who the Bracelys
were, I have never been able to discover. But when George Shuttleworth
wrote to me saying that he and his wife were intending to stay here for
a couple of days, and proposing to come over to The Hall to see me, I
thought I would just look in at the Arms myself, and see that they were
promised proper accommodation. They will dine with me tomorrow. I have
a few people staying, and no doubt Miss Bracely will sing afterwards.
My Broadwood was always considered a remarkably fine instrument. It was
very proper of George Shuttleworth to say that he would be in the
neighbourhood, and I daresay she is a very decent sort of woman."
They had come to the motor by this time--the rich, the noble motor, as
Mr Pepys would have described it--and there was poor Miss Lyall hung
with parcels, and wearing a faint sycophantic smile. This miserable
spinster, of age so obvious as to be called not the least uncertain,
was Lady Ambermere's companion, and shared with her the glories of The
Hall, which had been left to Lady Ambermere for life. She was provided
with food and lodging and the use of the cart like a hip-bath when Lady
Ambermere had errands for her to do in Riseholme, so what could a woman
want more? In return for these bounties, her only duty was to devote
herself body and mind to her patroness, to read the paper aloud, to set
Lady Ambermere's patterns for needlework, to carry the little Chinese
dog under her arm, and wash him once a week, to accompany Lady
Ambermere to church, and never to have a fire in her bedroom. She had a
melancholy wistful little face: her head was inclined with a backward
slope on her neck, and her mouth was invariably a little open shewing
long front teeth, so that she looked rather like a roast hare sent up
to table with its head on. Georgie always had a joke ready for Miss
Lyall, of the sort that made her say, "Oh, Mr Pillson!" and caused her
to blush. She thought him remarkably pleasant.
Georgie had his joke ready on this occasion.
"Why, here's Miss Lyall!" he said. "And what has Miss Lyall been doing
while her ladyship and I have been talking? Better not ask, perhaps."
"Oh, Mr Pillson!" said Miss Lyall, as punctually as a cuckoo clock when
the hands point to the hour.
Lady Ambermere put half her weight onto the step of the motor, causing
it to creak and sway.
"Call on the Shuttleworths, Georgie," she said. "Say I told you to.
Home!"
Miss Lyall effaced herself on the front seat of the motor, like a mouse
hiding in a corner, after Lady Ambermere had got in, and the footman
mounted onto the box. At that moment Peppino with his bag of bulbs, a
little out of breath, squeezed his way between two cabs by the side of
the motor. He was just too late, and the motor moved off. It was very
improbable that Lady Ambermere saw him at all.
Georgie felt very much like a dog with a bone in his mouth, who only
wants to get away from all the other dogs and discuss it quietly. It is
safe to say that never in twenty-four hours had so many exciting things
happened to him. He had ordered a toupet, he had been looked on with
favour by a Guru, all Riseholme knew that he had had quite a long
conversation with Lady Ambermere and nobody in Riseholme, except
himself, knew that Olga Bracely was going to spend two nights here.
Well he remembered her marvellous appearance last year at Covent Garden
in the part of Brunnhilde. He had gone to town for a rejuvenating visit
to his dentist, and the tarsomeness of being betwixt and between had
been quite forgotten by him when he saw her awake to Siegfried's line
on the mountain-top. "_Das ist keine mann_," Siegfried had said,
and, to be sure, that was very clever of him, for she looked like some
slim beardless boy, and not in the least like those great fat Fraus at
Baireuth, whom nobody could have mistaken for a man as they bulged and
heaved even before the strings of the breastplate were uncut by his
sword. And then she sat up and hailed the sun, and Georgie felt for a
moment that he had quite taken the wrong turn in life, when he settled
to spend his years in this boyish, maidenly manner with his embroidery
and his china-dusting at Riseholme. He ought to have been Siegfried....
He had brought a photograph of her in her cuirass and helmet, and often
looked at it when he was not too busy with something else. He had even
championed his goddess against Lucia, when she pronounced that Wagner
was totally lacking in knowledge of dramatic effects. To be sure she
had never seen any Wagner opera, but she had heard the overture to
Tristram performed at the Queen's Hall, and if that was Wagner,
well----
Already, though Lady Ambermere's motor had not yet completely vanished
up the street, Riseholme was gently closing in round him, in order to
discover by discreet questions (as in the game of Clumps) what he and
she had been talking about. There was Colonel Boucher with his two
snorting bull-dogs closing in from one side, and Mrs Weston in her
bath-chair being wheeled relentlessly towards him from another, and the
two Miss Antrobuses sitting playfully in the stocks, on the third, and
Peppino at close range on the fourth. Everyone knew, too, that he did
not lunch till half past one, and there was really no reason why he
should not stop and chat as usual. But with the eye of the true
general, he saw that he could most easily break the surrounding cordon
by going off in the direction of Colonel Boucher, because Colonel
Boucher always said "Haw, hum, by Jove," before he descended into
coherent speech, and thus Georgie could forestall him with "Good
morning, Colonel," and pass on before he got to business. He did not
like passing close to those slobbering bull-dogs, but something had to
be done ... Next moment he was clear and saw that the other spies by
their original impetus were still converging on each other and walked
briskly down towards Lucia's house, to listen for any familiar noises
out of the Mozart trio. The noises were there, and the soft pedal was
down just as he expected, so, that business being off his mind, he
continued his walk for a few hundred yards more, meaning to make a
short circuit through fields, cross the bridge, over the happy stream
that flowed into the Avon, and regain his house by the door at the
bottom of the garden. Then he would sit and think ... the Guru, Olga
Bracely ... What if he asked Olga Bracely and her husband to dine, and
persuaded Mrs Quantock to let the Guru come? That would be three men
and one woman, and Hermy and Ursy would make all square. Six for dinner
was the utmost that Foljambe permitted.
He had come to the stile that led into the fields, and sat there for a
moment. Lucia's tentative melodies were still faintly audible, but soon
they stopped, and he guessed that she was looking out of the window.
She was too great to take part in the morning spying that went on round
about the Green, but she often saw a good deal from her window. He
wondered what Mrs Quantock was meaning to do. Apparently she had not
promised the Guru for the garden-party, or else Lady Ambermere would
not have said that Lucia did not know whether he was coming or not.
Perhaps Mrs Quantock was going to run him herself, and grant him
neither to Lucia nor Georgie. In that case he would certainly ask Olga
Bracely and her husband to dine, and should he or should he not ask
Lucia?
The red star had risen in Riseholme: Bolshevism was treading in its
peaceful air, and if Mrs Quantock was going to secrete her Guru, and
set up her own standard on the strength of him, Georgie felt much
inclined to ask Olga Bracely to dinner, without saying anything
whatever to Lucia about it, and just see what would happen next.
Georgie was a Bartlett on his mother's side, and he played the piano
better than Lucia, and he had twenty-four hours' leisure every day,
which he could devote to being king of Riseholme.... His nature flared
up, burning with a red revolutionary flame, that was fed by his secret
knowledge about Olga Bracely. Why should Lucia rule everyone with her
rod of iron? Why, and again why?
Suddenly he heard his name called in the familiar alto, and there was
Lucia in her Shakespeare's garden.
"Georgino! Georgino mio!" she cried. "Gino!"
Out of mere habit Georgie got down from his stile, and tripped up the
road towards her. The manly seething of his soul's insurrection rebuked
him, but unfortunately his legs and his voice surrendered. Habit was
strong....
"Amica!" he answered. "Buon Giorno." ("And why do I say it in Italian?"
he vainly asked himself.)
"Geordie, come and have ickle talk," she said. "Me want 'oo wise man to
advise ickle Lucia."
"What 'oo want?" asked Georgie, now quite quelled for the moment.
"Lots-things. Here's pwetty flower for button-holie. Now tell me about
black man. Him no snakes have? Why Mrs Quantock say she thinks he no
come to poo' Lucia's party-garden?"
"Oh, did she?" asked Georgie relapsing into the vernacular.
"Yes, oh, and by the way there's a parcel come which I think must be
the Mozart trio. Will you come over tomorrow morning and read it with
me? Yes? About half-past eleven, then. But never mind that."
She fixed him with her ready, birdy eye.
"Daisy asked me to ask him," she said, "and so to oblige poor Daisy I
did. And now she says she doesn't know if he'll come. What does that
mean? Is it possible that she wants to keep him to herself? She has
done that sort of thing before, you know."
This probably represented Lucia's statement of the said case about the
Welsh attorney, and Georgie taking it as such felt rather embarrassed.
Also that bird-like eye seemed to gimlet its way into his very soul,
and divine the secret disloyalty that he had been contemplating. If she
had continued to look into him, he might not only have confessed to the
gloomiest suspicions about Mrs Quantock, but have let go of his secret
about Olga Bracely also, and suggested the possibility of her and her
husband being brought to the garden-party. But the eye at this moment
unscrewed itself from him again and travelled up the road.
"There's the Guru," she said. "Now we will see!"
Georgie, faint with emotion, peered out between the form of the peacock
and the pine-apple on the yew-hedge, and saw what followed. Lucia went
straight up to the Guru, bowed and smiled and clearly introduced
herself. In another moment he was showing his white teeth and
salaaming, and together they walked back to The Hurst, where Georgie
palpitated behind the yew-hedge. Together they entered and Lucia's eye
wore its most benignant aspect.
"I want to introduce to you, Guru," she said without a stumble, "a
great friend of mine. This is Mr Pillson, Guru; Guru, Mr Pillson. The
Guru is coming to tiffin with me, Georgie. Cannot I persuade you to
stop?"
"Delighted!" said Georgie. "We met before in a sort of way, didn't we?"
"Yes, indeed. So pleased," said the Guru.
"Let us go in," said Lucia, "It is close on lunch-time."
Georgie followed, after a great many bowings and politenesses from the
Guru. He was not sure if he had the makings of a Bolshevist. Lucia was
so marvellously efficient.