it came out with the august spontaneity of lightning leaping from a cloud. Not till that moment had Georgie guessed at a tithe of all that Olga had felt so certain about, and a double emotion took hold of him. He was immensely sorry for Lucia, never having conjectured how she must have suffered before she attained to so superb a sourness, and he adored the intuition that had guessed it and wanted to sweeten it.
The outburst was not quite over yet, though Lucia felt distinctly better.
“And you, Georgie,” she said, “though I’m sure we are such strangers that I ought to call you Mr Pillson, what have you been doing? Playing Miss Bracely’s accompaniments, and sewing wedding-dresses all day, and raising spooks all night? Yes.”
Lucia had caught this “Yes” from Lady Ambermere, having found it peculiarly obnoxious. You laid down a proposition, or asked a question, and then confirmed it yourself.
“And Mr Cortese,” she said, “is he still roaring out his marvellous English and Italian? Yes. What a full life you lead, Georgie. I suppose you have no time for your painting now.”
This was not a bow drawn at a venture, for she had seen Georgie come out of Old Place with his paint-box and drawing-board, but this direct attack on him did not lessen the power of the “sweet charity” which had sent him here. He blew the bugle to rally all the good-nature for which he was capable.
“No, I have been painting lately,” he said, “at least I have been trying to. I’m doing a little
