Part 21 (2/2)

The woman made a wry face. ”Umm,” she said. ”You can get awful scraggy on that diet. Keeps yer girlish, I tell yer.” And then she looked up into Lola's face. It was such a kind face, with so sympathetic a mouth, that she had no hesitation in letting down her professional fourth wall.

”I'd be thankful if you could let me have a bit on account, miss,” she added, with rather pathetic whimsicality. ”Without any bloomin' eyewash, not even Sherlock Holmes could find as much as a bob in this house, and I have a bill at the draper's to be met before I can sail in and give 'em perciflage.”

”Nothing easier,” said Lola, who had come armed to meet this very request, having imagination. And out came her little purse and from it five nice pristine one-pound notes which she had most carefully h.o.a.rded up out of her wages.

And then for an hour and more Lola transferred herself, taking her time, from frock to frock, while Mrs. Rumbold did those intricate things with pins and a pair of scissors which only long practice can achieve. But Lady Cheyne failed to appear. Had she forgotten? Had some one steered her off? Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes.

Lola's heart began to sink into her shoes. But just as she was about to lose hope, there was a loud and haughty ring at the bell which sent Mrs.

Rumbold helter-skelter to the window, through which she peered eagerly.

”Well, upon my word,” she cried in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. ”If you ain't a bloomin' mascot. It's Lady Cheyne who used to be one of my best customers, and I haven't seen 'er for a year.” And she ran out excitedly and opened the door and hoped her neighbors would be duly impressed by the rather dilapidated Mercedes which was drawn up in front of the house.

There was a burst of welcome, and then Lady Cheyne entered the workroom much in the same way as a broad-beamed cargo-boat floats into harbor.

And then followed another surprise for Mrs. Rumbold, who was in for a day of surprises, it appeared. ”Well, you dear thing, here you are.

Punctual to the minute, as I always am. How are you, and where have you been, and why haven't you run in to see me, and how sweet you look.” And the kind and exuberant little lady, whose amazing body seemed to require more than one dressmaker to cover it up, drew Lola warmly to her side and kissed her. It is true that she had forgotten her name again. She saw so many people so often who had such weird and unp.r.o.nounceable names that she never even made an effort to remember any of them. But that golden head and those wide-apart eyes reminded her of the conversation over the telephone, brought back that evening at her house and linked them with the tall figure of the one-armed soldier,-her dear friend Peter something, so good looking, _such_ a darling, but _so_ unkind, never coming near her. ”Extraordinary enough, I was thinking of you only a few nights ago. I was dining at the Savoy and the little crowd who were with me spoke of you. They had been with me the night I met you there and were _so_ interested. One of the men said that if I could find you and take you to his concert he would try and draw your lips to his with the power of his art. He often says things like that. But he's only an artist, so it doesn't matter. Mrs. Rumstick, I want you to find something to do in the next room until I call you. No, leave my things alone. I'll explain what has to be done to them in my own good time.

That's right.-We're alone, my dear. Now tell me all about it.” She sat on a chair that had the right to groan and caught hold of Lola's hand.

”It's love,” said Lola.

”Ah!”

”It's love and adoration and long-deferred hope.”

”Oh, my dear, how you excite me!”

”And it can't come right without you.”

”Me! Good gracious, but what can I do?”

Lola leaned closer. The pathetic farcicality of the dear old lady's wreaths and becks left the seriousness of all this untouched. She clasped the dimpled hand in both her own and set her will to work.

”Bring us together,” she whispered, setting fire to romance, so that Lady Cheyne bobbed up and down. ”Help us to meet where no one can see, quickly, quickly. The world is getting old.”

”Well, there's the library at Number One Hundred! No one has ever been in there except me since w.i.l.l.y pa.s.sed away. You can come there any time you like and not a soul will see you. And he, if he doesn't mind his trousers, can climb over the back wall, so that he shan't be seen going into the house. I wouldn't do it for any one but you, my dear. That room has dear memories for me.”

Kind and sweet,-but what was the use? It must be Chilton, Chilton, or nothing at all. And so Lola kissed her grat.i.tude upon the hot, rouged cheek, but shook her head and sighed. (Go on, de Breze, go on.)

”He wouldn't dare,” she said. ”Nowhere in town; it's far too dangerous.

The least whisper, the merest hint of gossip--”

Lady Cheyne wobbled at the thought. There was more in this than met the eye,-a Great Romance, love in High Places. How wonderful to be in, perhaps, on History. ”But at night,” she said. ”Late, when every one's in bed. I a.s.sure you that after twelve One Hundred might be in the country.”

”Ah,” said Lola, ”the country. Isn't there some place in the country, high up near the sky, with woods behind it where we can meet and speak--”

”Whitecross!” cried Lady Cheyne, brilliantly inspired. ”Made for love and kisses, if ever there was a place. How dull of me only just to have thought of that.”

”Whitecross? What is that?” How eager the tone, how tremulous the voice.

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