"Do we? I never outgrow mine, and smoking gives us all the pleasures of hope and of memory. Let us sit in two corners of this sofa and talk; I do want to know you."
"It is very kind of you to say so," responded Angel quietly. Lola gave a long comprehensive glance round the luxurious room, and blew a cloud of smoke through her nostrils.
"You must be very well off," she remarked suddenly.
"We are," admitted her companion; "an old friend of Philip's mother, a lover, I believe, died a year ago, and left him three thousand a year."
"Nonsense," sitting erect; "fancy remaining in this country."
"Philip likes it—his heart is in his work. He would hate to retire, and just live in London clubs and in a house in Mayfair."
"What do you know of Mayfair?"
"Not much, but I lived there once." A pause, and then Angel suddenly said, "Please tell me about Philip's mother."
"Oh, Aunt Ven, as we called her. She was beautiful; such a lovely face, a little sad—a good woman. It was said that in her first season, she took London by storm, also her second, and at the height of her glory she dropped out of the firmament; and was seen no more."
"Was there not a reason?"