“And go in for love. Yes, I know. But what has this got to do with Lola,—with Madame de Brézé?”
That was the point that beat Feo, the thing that filled her with a sort of impatient astonishment. Was this uncommunicative girl, who seemed to her to be so essentially feminine, whose métier in life was obviously to purr under the touch of a masculine hand, who had been given a holiday to go on a love chase with Chalfont, presumably, somehow connected with politics? It was incredible.
“Oh, you’ve seen Fallaray.”
“Yes, my dear man, yes! He broke the news to me the moment he came in,”
“Did he ask you to give him a divorce?”
“He did, without a single stutter.”
“And you said——”
“But—my dear young Lochinvar, may I make so bold as to ask why this perfectly personal matter has to be discussed in the open, so to speak?” She made her meaning unmistakably clear. This girl was not so close a friend as he might have been led to suppose.
“What did you say to Mr. Fallaray?” asked Lola, leaning forward eagerly.
And Lytham waited with equal anxiety for an answer.