She looked at him with a charming look of surprise, then guessed.
"Ah, it was on the piano," she said.
"No. I knew before."
Again she wrinkled her forehead into a soft frown.
"I give it up," she said.
"You were whistling it."
She nodded at him.
"That is highly likely. You see, I can only whistle when my aunts are out. They think it so unlady-like. Sometimes I whistle when they have gone to bed, and always if I am walking alone. I'm afraid I must be unlady-like at heart. Isn't it a pity? Oh, there's that awful cat again on the flower-bed! Might I trouble you to throw a small stone at it? It digs up tender plants all day, and sings songs of triumph all night. Thank you very much. It will now go and meditate evilly in the asparagus for half an hour, and make fresh plans."
Lucia was quite aware she was talking nonsense, and carefully observed him the while. He had thrown the stone with precision, because she had asked him to, but he had thrown it with no more gaiety than he would have exhibited had he given her a chair at her request. And she instantly changed her tone.
"But surely one may be forgiven for whistling Schubert," she said. "He is one of the magical things of the world, is he not? There are so few that are really magic. Venice, I think, must be; Omar Khayyám—that was my book, by the way—is; great big la France roses are"
This was far better; he was quickened at this.
"Really, I congratulate you on your selection," he said; "those are certainly all magic. And how completely one piece of magic outweighs all that is not magic. I would cheerfully rain fire and brimstone on to Paris and London and Rome and Florence to save Venice."
Lucia shrugged her shoulders, and spread out her hands with a charming little desolate gesture.
"And I have never seen it," she said. "Isn't it maddening to think that Venice is going on all the time, and that when it is sunset in Venice to-day I shall be looking at that stupid cricket, and hearing that ridiculous band play Strauss waltzes? Tea for you? Sugar? Milk? I am so hungry. And after tea I can, anyhow, show you a magic la France. After all, between Schubert, Omar Khayyám, and the rose I shall have had a very nice afternoon."
