Part 8 (2/2)

”I'm longing for asparagus,” said Lola in the manner of an old friend.

”That's perfectly simple,” said Chalfont, blinking just once. ”I'm alone, you're alone, and asparagus ought to be good just now.”

”Suppose we go in then,” said Lola, buying the hotel, her blood dancing, her eyes all free from fright. She was perfectly happy in the presence of this man because she recognized in him immediately a modern version of the Chevalier who had so frequently brought her bonbons to her room at Versailles which overlooked the back yard of Queen's Road, Bayswater.

”My name's Chalfont, Peter Chalfont.” A rigid conventionality sat on his shoulders.

”I know,” she said, and added without a moment's hesitation, ”I am Madame de Breze.” And then she knew how she knew. How useful was the Tatler. Before the War, during the War, after the War, the eyes of this man had stared at her from its pages in the same spirit of protection.

That very afternoon she had paused at his photograph taken in hunting kit, sitting on his horse beside the Prince of Wales, underneath which was printed, ”Sir Peter Chalfont, Bart. V. C. Late Brigadier General,”-and somewhere among that crowd was Fallaray.

II

As they went down the red-carpeted stairs and pa.s.sed through what Peter called ”the monkey house,” the people who had dined at a cheap restaurant and now at the cost of a cup of coffee were there to watch the menagerie followed Lola with eager eyes. Some of them recognized Chalfont. But who was she? A chorus girl? No. A sister? He was certainly not wearing a brotherly expression. A lady? Obviously, and one who could afford not to wear a single jewel. What a refres.h.i.+ng contrast to the wives of profiteers. And she was so young, so finished,-a Personality.

Even Grosvenor Bones, the man who made it his duty to know everybody and supplied the _Daily Looking Gla.s.s_ with illiterate little paragraphs, was puzzled and, like a dramatic critic who sees something really original and faultless, startled, disconcerted.

Feeling her own pulse as she pa.s.sed through the avenue of stares, Lola was amazed to find that her heart-beats were normal, that she was not in the least excited or frightened or uncertain of herself any longer. She felt, indeed-and commented inwardly on the fact-as though dinner at the Savoy were part of her usual routine, and that Peter Chalfont was merely Albert Simpkins or Ernest Treadwell in a better coat and cast in a rarer mold. How Chalfont would have laughed if she had told him this. She felt, as a matter of fact, like a girl who was playing a leading part on the London stage as a dark horse, but who had in reality gained enormous experience in a repertory company in the Provinces. She thanked her stars that she had indulged in her private game for so long a time.

The bandmaster, a glossy person with a roving and precocious eye, bent double, violin and all, and signaled congratulations to Chalfont with ears and eyes, eyebrows and mouth. He had the impertinence of a successful jockey. A head waiter came to the entrance of the dining room and washed his hands,-his face wearing his best bedside manner. ”For two, Sir Peter?” he asked, as though he were not quite sure that some miracle might not break them into three. And Peter nodded. But Lola was not to be hurried off to the first of the disengaged tables. Fallaray was somewhere in the room and her scheme was, if possible, to sit at a table well within his line of vision. She laid the tips of her fingers on Chalfont's arm and inspected the room.-There was Fallaray, as noticeable in that heterogeneous crowd as a Rodin figure among the efforts of amateur sculptors. ”That table,” she said to the head waiter and indicated one placed against a pillar. One or two of Chalfont's friends S. O. S.'d to him as he followed the young, slim erect figure across the maze. Luck with her once more, Lola found herself face to face with Fallaray, only two tables intervening. She decided that the charming old lady was his mother. The other had no interest for her.

A thousand questions ran through Chalfont's head. Madame de Breze.-Widow of one of the gallant Frenchmen who had been killed in the War, or the wife, let down by her lover, of an elderly Parisian blood? He would bet his life against the latter conjecture, and the first did not seem to be possible because he had never seen any face so free from grief, pain or suffering. De Breze. The name conveyed nothing. He had never heard it before. It had a good ring about it. But how was it that this girl talked English as well as his sister? She looked French. She wore her dress like a Frenchwoman. There was something about the neatness of her hair which Frenchwomen alone achieve. Probably educated in England. He was delighted with her acceptance of the situation. That was decidedly French. An English girl, even in these days, would either have frozen him to his shoes or lent to the episode a forced note of irregularity which would have made it tiresome and tasteless.

It was not until after the asparagus had arrived that Lola succeeded in catching Fallaray's eyes. They looked at her for a moment as though she were merely a necessary piece of hotel decoration and wandered off. But to her intense and indescribable joy, they returned and remained and something came into them which showed her that he had focused them upon her as a human being and a woman. She saw that he wore the expression of a man who had suddenly heard the loud ringing of a bell, an alarm bell.

And then, having seen that his stare had been noticed, he never looked again.

The rustle of silk!-The rustle of silk!

And presently, Chalfont being silent, she leant forward and spoke in a low voice. Luckily the band was not playing a jazz tune but at the request of some old-fas.h.i.+oned person Ma.s.senet's ”Elegy.” She said, ”Sir Peter, will you do something for me?” And he replied, ”Anything under the sun.” ”Well, then, will you introduce me to Mr. Fallaray before he leaves the room? He's at a table just behind you. I admire him so much.

It would be a great-the greatest--”

Her voice broke and a flush ran up to her hair, and something came into her eyes that made them look like stars.

Luckily Chalfont was not looking at her face. Her request was a large order, and as usual when puzzled,-he was never disconcerted-he began twisting about his comic cork hand. ”Fallaray?” he said, and raised his eyebrows. ”Of course, I'd love to do it for you. I know him as well as anybody else does, I suppose-I mean ordinary people. But he doesn't remember me from Adam. He pa.s.sed me to-night in the foyer, for instance, and looked clean through my head. I had to put up my hand to see that I hadn't left it at home. He's the only man, except the sweep who used to come to our house when I was a kid, of whom I've ever been afraid.

However-you wish it and the thing must be done.” And he gave her a little bow.

Lola could see that she had given her new friend a task from which he would do almost anything to escape. After all, there was not much in common between Fallaray, whose nose was at the grindstone, and Peter Chalfont, who had nothing to do but kill time. But she must meet Fallaray that night. It was written. Every man was a stepping-stone to this one man who needed her so, but did not know her yet. Therefore, with a touch of ruthlessness that came to her directly from her famous ancestress, she thanked him and added, ”It can be managed near the place where you put your hat and coat.”

Chalfont was amused and interested and even perhaps a little astonished at this pretty young thing who had the ways of a woman of the world. ”I agree with you,” he said, ”but--” and looked at the menu.

Lola shook her head. ”I hate buts. They are at the meat course and we've only just begun. Dinner doesn't really interest you and I'm a mere canary. The moment they rise from the table we can make a quick exit.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to quote Simpkins and say ”nick out.”

Chalfont grinned, pounced upon his roll and started to eat. ”After all,”

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