And that was why he sat down on the sofa a little too close to Lola and dared to possess himself of her hand. “Princess,—you know ’ow I feel. You know what you’ve done to me.”
Lola patted his hand and gave it back and rewarded him with a smile which she considered to be matronly. “Nice Simpky,” she said. “Very nice Simpky,” as though he were a rather faulty terrier a little too keen on the thrown stick. “I must go now,” she added and rose. “I have some sewing to do for Lady Feo.”
And as Simpkins watched her go, his whole heart swelled, and something went to his head that blurred everything for a moment. He would sell his soul for that girl. For her sake he would even set light to the “Black Bull” and watch it burn, if that would give her a moment’s amusement.
Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy——
What Lola did in Lady Feo’s room was not to sew but to seat herself at the dressing table, do her hair with the greatest care and practise with the make-up sticks,—rouge, and the brush of water colors with which she emphasized her eyebrows. Finally, time having flown, she borrowed a pair of lace stockings, some shoes and gloves, made her way stealthily along the servants’ corridor to her own room, and packed them, with the new frock, into a cardboard box. Dressed and hatted for the street, she carried the magic costume in which she was going to transplant herself from Cinderella’s kitchen to the palace of the Prince and went down to the servants’ sitting room through which it was necessary for her to go in order to escape.
Miss Breezy was there, issuing, as she would have said, orders to one of the housemaids. That was lucky. It saved Lola from answering an outburst of questions. As it was, she gave a little bow to her aunt, said “Good evening, Miss Breezy,” opened the door and nipped up the area steps into the street. A little involuntary laugh floated behind her like the petals of a rose. A prowling taxi caught her eye. She nodded and was in before any one could say Jack Robinson,—if any one now remembers the name of that mystic early Victorian.
The address she gave was 22 Castleton Terrace, Bayswater.
Mr. Fallaray.—The Savoy!
IX
“My word,” said Mrs. Rumbold, getting up from her knees and taking a pin out of her mouth. “I never see anything like it before. It’s my opinion that you could ’old your own in that frock with any of the best, my dear. It’s so quiet—yet so compelling. The best of taste. If I see you coming down the steps of the Ritz, I should nudge the person I was with and say, ‘Duke’s daughter. French mother probably.’”