here I never saw. I love romance. You can only really get it in a country house and in the plays of Mr. Shaw. Neither bears the slightest resemblance to real life. That's what romance means. Heavens! It's eleven, and I told them not to begin the rehearsal without me."
Aunt Cathie was standing by the table when this stream of foreign language began; then she saw that that was awkward, and sat down. Upon which a footman offered her poached eggs, and brought her a little service of coffee. That was even more awkward, and she got up again. She was not precisely self-conscious, though she had acute moments of that distressing complaint. In general, it was mere bewilderment that she felt. And Brixham was romantic because it bore no relation to life—what did it all mean?
But Lucia got up at the end of the last inexplicable remark, and came across to her, drawing her away with an arm entwined in an arm toward the window. And the others went on talking, just as if it was a stage, and an aside had to be conducted.
"Dear Aunt Cathie," she said, "I do hope you are enjoying yourself, and of course you'll go out and have lunch with the shooters, and flirt with Charlie, or do anything you choose. Have you seen all our volumes of photographs that Edgar and I brought back from abroad? They are all in the library neatly labelled, and so numerous and large that you will see them at once. Or would you like to spend a quiet morning? Maud always does, and Mouse is going to ride, but you don't ride, do you? But to-night, you know, after dinner, we are going to have 'Salome.' It's an opera by Strauss, and I'm sure you'd think it dreadfully ugly unless you studied it first. So don't come, if you don't want to be bored. It's all screams and whistles and explosions, you know, like a railway accident. And perhaps you wouldn't quite like the story, if you hadn't been accustomed to it. Wasn't it dear of Edgar? He thought of that, and told me to tell you. But now I must fly; I must go to their last rehearsal. Lunch? No, if you go out to have lunch with the shooters, you won't see me. Till dinner, then; and pray don't come to the play, if you feel like that about it. But do go and look at the theatre; I made Edgar build the stage last year, and it opens out of the loggia by the drawing-room. They all say it's wonderful for sound. And to-night we shall dine in sort of tea-gown things. You really mustn't wear that beautiful puce silk again. What a nice dress you have on! So suitable for walking. Oh, what
