III
After all, then, Feo was to spend a dull and dreary Sunday in London; but she had slept endlessly, hour after hour, and when at last she woke at twelve o’clock, the sun was pouring into her room. Wonder of wonders, there was nothing dull about this Sunday! London lay under an utterly blue sky and those of its people who had not fled from its streets to the country, afraid of its dreariness, were out, finding unexpected touches of beauty in their old city and a lull of traffic that was restful.
The sight of Lola as she came into the room in the discreet garments of her servitude brought instant laughter back to Feo’s lips. Only a few hours ago she had been claimed as an intimate friend by the girl, with all the confidence and aplomb of a member of the enclosure. How perfectly delightful. She took her cup of tea and sat up in bed, forgetting everything except the backwash of her great amusement. Madame de Brézé.—By Jove, those quiet ones,—they knew their way about. When she had been undressed the night before, Feo had been in no mood to chaff her maid, then a mere human machine, about her general and her escapade. Depression, disappointment and humiliation had driven the Carlton incident out of the way. But now the sun was shining again and she had slept in a great chunk. What did Gilbert Macquarie count in the scheme of things now, or, for the matter of that, Ellingham? She thanked all her gods that she possessed the gift of quick recovery.
And now to pull the little devil’s leg. “Oh, hello, old girl,” she said, carrying on her attitude of the previous night, “how awfully nice of you to bring me my tea.” She expected utter embarrassment and confusion, and certainly an apology. Good Lord, the girl had pinched those stockings!
But the answer was quiet and perfectly natural. “That’s all right, Feo. Only too glad.”
After the first gasp of surprise there was a loud guffaw. Nothing in this world was more pleasing to Feo than the unexpected. “Sunday in London! But this is as good and a jolly sight better than Saturday night at the Adelphi. Bravo, Lola. The bitter bit. Keep it up. I love it.”
And with her black hair all tousled, her greenish eyes dancing with amusement, her large mouth wide open and the collar of her black silk pajamas gaping, she stirred her tea and waited for the fun.
And seeing that her mistress was all for laughing and that she had hit the right note, Lola kept it up. Witless and without daring, eh? Well, wait and see.
“I rather wish we’d gone on with you to the theater,” she said, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the arm of a chair in a Georgie Malwood pose. “It might have amused you to see something of Peter Chalfont, who has refused to join the gang.”
Feo was amazed at the perfection of what was, of course, an imitation of herself. Breezy’s niece was a very dark horse, it seemed.
“But where the deuce did you pick him up?” she asked, continuing the game.
“Oh, my dear, I’ve known him for years. He was an old pal of the man I married in my teens and was always hanging about the place. I call him the White Knight because he has such a charming way of rescuing women in distress. If you’re keen about getting to know him, I’ll work it for you, with all the pleasure in life.”
Back went that black head with hair like a young Hawaiian. Oh, but this was immense. A lady’s maid and a bedside jester, rolled into one. And how inimitably the girl had caught her intonation and manner of expression. A born actress, that was what she was.
“Don’t bother about me. What are you going to do with him? That’s what I want to know.”
Lola shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I dunno,” she said, with a lifelike Feo drawl. “What can I do with him? Only trail him round.”
“Marry him, of course. That man’s a catch, you fool. Stacks of money, three show places in the country, a title as old as Rufus, and only one hand to hit you with.”
“But I’m not marrying,” said Lola.
And that was too much for Feo. She threw the clothes back and kicked up her heels like a schoolgirl. But before she could congratulate her lady’s maid on a delightful bit of acting and an egregious piece of impertinence that was worth all the Sundays in London to watch, the telephone bell rang and brought her back to facts.
“Just see who that is, will you? And before you say I’m here, find out who it is.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Lola. The little game was over. It hadn’t lasted long. But if it had put her ladyship into a generous mood——
It was Mrs. Winchfield, calling up from Aylesbury.
“Oh, well,” said Feo, with the remembrance of great dullness. “Give me the ’phone and get my bath ready. And tell them to let me have lots of breakfast in half an hour, here. I could eat a horse.”
“Very good, my lady.”
And when Lola returned, having carried out her orders and still tingling with the triumph of having proved her courage and her wit, she found Lady Feo lying in the middle of the room, on her back, doing exercises. “All the dullards have left the Winchfields’,” she said. “There’s to be a pucca man there this afternoon, one I’ve had my eye on for weeks. Quick’s the word, Lola. Get me dressed and into the car. This is Sunday and I’m in London. It’s perfectly absurd. I shall stay the night, of course, and I shan’t want you till to-morrow at six. What’ll you do? Lunch at the Carlton?”
“I shall go home, my lady.” But the twinkle returned.
“Oh, yes, of course. I spoilt your holiday, didn’t I? By the way, does your mother know that you’re in society now?”
And Lola replied, “The bath is ready, my lady.”
And once more Feo laughed, lit a cigarette and went towards the bathroom. Here she turned and looked at the now mouse-like Lola with a peculiarly mischievous glint in her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be a frightful spree if I went after Peter Chalfont and told him all I know about you?” Two minutes later she was singing in the bath.
Tell Peter Chalfont!—But Lola knew that this was an empty threat. Mr. Fallaray’s wife was a sportsman. Mr. Fallaray’s wife.
For the first time in all this business, these words stood out in ghastly clearness, with all that they meant to Lady Feo and her, who was “after” Mr. Fallaray. Was she, Lola, a sportsman too? The question came suddenly, like a bomb dropped from a Zeppelin, and drew the girl up short. But the answer followed quickly and it was Yes, yes, because this woman was not Fallaray’s wife and never had been.
But there was more than a little irony in the fact that she liked Lady Feo, was grateful to her, had seen many of her best points and so far as the Carlton episode went, recognized in her a most unusual creature, imbued with a spirit of mischief which was almost like that of a child. And yet for all that, she was Fallaray’s wife.—It was more than conceivable, as Lola could guess, that if the whole story were confided in detail, with the de Brézé background all brought out, Lady Feo would first of all laugh and then probably help her little lady’s maid for the fun of the thing, and to be able, impishly, one night when she met Fallaray coming back from the House worn and round-shouldered, to stand in front of him, jumping to conclusions, and say, “Ha, ha! Sooner or later you all come off your pedestal, don’t you? But look out, Master Messiah. If the world spots you in the first of your human games, pop goes the weasel, and you may as well take to growing roses.”
Still singing, and back again in the highest spirits, Feo breakfasted in her room and Lola dressed her for the country. Not once but many times during the hour that followed she endeavored to pump Lola about Chalfont and as to the number of times that she had gone out into “life.” But Lola was a match for her and evaded all questions; sometimes with a perfectly straight face, sometimes with an answering twinkle in her eye. Although she was piqued by the girl’s continued elusiveness, Feo was filled with admiration at her extraordinary self-control,—a thing that she respected, being without it herself. And then Lola, with a little sigh, and as though drawn at last, got to her point in this strange and intimate talk. “I’m afraid I shall never be able to see Sir Peter again,” she said sadly. “I have only one evening frock and he has seen it twice.”
At which Feo went to her wardrobe, flung open the doors, took down dress after dress, threw them on her bed and said, “Take your choice. Of course, you can’t always wear the same old frock. Sir Galahad has a quick eye. Take what stockings you need also and help yourself to my shoes. There are plenty more where these came from,—you little devil. If you catch that man, and I shan’t be a bit surprised if you do, you will have done something that nearly every girl in society has taken a shot at during the last five years. I make one bargain with you, Lola, in return for these things. Spend your honeymoon at Chilton Park and let me present you at Court.”
An icy hand had touched her heart again. A honeymoon at Chilton Park,—with Chalfont.