“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already.”

“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then — not till then — let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations — ” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”

“Make her one of us,”