VIII
In the servants’ sitting room Simpkins was sitting alone, not reading, not smoking; thinking of Lola and of the inn at Wargrave which had become so detestable,—a dead ambition, the ghost of a dream. And when the door opened and Lola let herself in, tear-stained, he sprang to his feet, gazing in amazement. Lola—dressed like a lady—crying.—But she held up her hand, went swiftly across the room and out, upstairs. She was back an hour and a half too soon. There was no need for Ellen to slip down and open the door. The evening had been a dismal failure. It would be a long time before she would play Cinderella again,—although the Prince loved her and had told her so.
But instead of going through the door which led to the servants’ quarters, she stood for a moment in the corridor through which Simpkins had taken her when she had first become an inmate of that house and once more she stayed there against the tapestry with a cold hand on her heart. Simpkins loved her. Treadwell loved her. Chalfont loved her, but oh, where was Fallaray? What a little fool she had been ever to suppose, in her wildest dreams, that Fallaray, Fallaray would see her and stop to speak, set alight by the love in her eyes! What a silly little fool.
A door opened and Fallaray came out,—his shoulders rounded, his Savonarola face pale and lined with sleeplessness. At the sight of the charming little figure in evening dress he drew up. Mrs. Malwood perhaps, or another of Feo’s friends. She was entertaining again, of course.
And Lola trembled like a frightened bird, with great tears welling from her eyes.
Fallaray was puzzled. This child did not look like one of Feo’s friends,—and why was she crying? He knew the face, he remembered those wide-apart eyes. They had followed him into his work, into his dreams,—de Brézé, de Brézé,—the Savoy, the Concert.
He held out his hand. “Madame de Brézé,” he said, “what have they done to you?”
And she shook her head again, trembling violently.
And Fallaray, with the old curious tingle running through his veins, was helpless. If she wouldn’t tell him what was the matter, what was he to do? He imagined that some flippancy or some sarcasm had wounded this astonishing girl and she had fled from the drawing-room and lost her way. But women were unknown to him, utter strangers, and he was called to work. He said, “My wife’s room is there,” stood irresolute for a moment, although his brain was filled with the songs of birds, and bowed and went away.
And when Lola heard the street door close, she moved like a bird shot through the wings, fumbled her way to the passage which led to her servant’s bedroom and flung herself face downwards upon her bed. What was it in her that did these things to every man,—except Fallaray?