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chroniclewouldbesadlybrief.
“Ifear,”thoughtLuciatoherself,“thatthe
RecordingAngelwillhavenexttonothinginhisbook
aboutmethisyear.I’vebeenvegetating.
Molto
cattiva!
I’vebeencontent(yetnotquitecontent:Iwill
saythatformyself)tobeoccupiedwithahundred
trifles.I’vebeenfritteringmyenergiesawayover
them,druggingmyselfwiththefallacythattheywere
important.Butsurelyawomanintheprimeoflifelike
mecouldhavedoneallIhavedoneasmererelaxations
inhercareer.Imustdosomethingmoremonumental
(monumentumreperennius,
isn’tit?)inthiscoming
year.IknowIhavethecapacityforhighambition.
WhatIdon’tknowiswhattobeambitiousabout.Ah,
there’slunchatlast.”
Luciacouldalwaysaugurfromthemodeinwhich
Grosvenor,herparlourmaid,playedherprelude
tofoodonthosetunefulchimes,inwhatsort
ofatempershewas.Thereweresixbellshungclose
togetheronaburnishedcopperframe,andtheyrang
thefirstsixnotesofanascendingmajorscale.
Grosvenorimprovisedonthesewithasmalldrumstick,
andifshewasfindinglifeaharmoniousbusinessshe
oftentreatedLuciatocharmingdaintylittletunes,
quiteapleasuretolistento,thoughsometimesrather
long.Nowandthentherewasanalmostlyrical
outburstofmelody,whichcausedLuciaamomentary
qualmofanxiety,lestGrosvenorshouldhavefallen
inlove,andwouldleave.Butifshefeltmorose
orcynical,sheexpressedherhumourwithrealistic
fidelity.To-dayshestrucktwoadjoiningbellsvery
hard,andthenranthedrumstickupanddownthe
peal,producingamostjangledeffect,whichmeant
thatshewasjangledtoo.“Iwonderwhat’sthematter:
indigestionperhaps,”thoughtLucia,andshehurried
indoors,forajangledGrosvenorhatedtobekept
waiting.
“Mr.Georgiehasn’trungup?”sheasked,asshe
seatedherself.
