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Rh prompted, he would find that some admirable occupation was ready, in case it recommended itself to him. Till lunch-time each day a careful blank was left by her, but she arranged that motor-cars, golf-caddies and fishing gillies were lurking like wild beasts round the corner, ready to pounce. There would be lunch indoors or out-of-doors as the weather dictated, but that would be as informal as the affairs of the morning. But—here again she showed herself daring—at half-past five the formal day began. Her dinner guests would be arriving by then, and she (appearing for the first time that day, if so she chose) would receive them on the deep loggia which had been built the year before to take the place of the veranda where Edgar and Charlie had lounged and drunk their coffee after lunch three years ago. It stretched out thirty feet from the windows of the big drawing-room, darkening it considerably, which, as Lucia pointed out, was without consequence, since the room was never used till after dinner. It ran half the length of the house, a hundred feet at the least, and at one end was a raised stage where the band would be placed, and where, when it was shut in down all its length with wooden shutters, the French comedy would play after dinner. At tea, then, the more elaborate part of the simple day would begin. For those who wanted to hear music, there would be the band; for those who wanted to talk there would be the garden, while she would occupy the central position, able to stroll with those who wished to stroll, able to move a little to the left and hear the music.

Dinner would follow, and again she gave accident no chance, going through the menu for each evening, weighing, so to speak, the value of each dish not in itself, but its relation to the dinner. Clever as her chef was, he was but a weak campaigner in comparison with his mistress, and it was not till Lucia pointed out that three days of salmon out of seven was an excess of that admirable fish that his mind awoke to the fact. But, with a thousand pardons, what was to be done? Miladi could not have seven different fish. There were no seven fish to be eaten.

Lucia gave this her full consideration.

"Then on Thursday we will have no fish at all," she said; "and on Friday we will have herrings. Herrings! There is nothing better. Mustard sauce, and plain fried herrings. Is it fried? They are browner on one side than on the other. That makes Friday's dinner all wrong. Let us begin it again. It must be all plain, quite plain. Bonne femme, the herrings, sans blague, Adolph, I mean it. Then—then little bits of lamb—yes,