And then came supper, a welcome event for which all those sixty people had been waiting. This was served in the dining room, another large and eccentric apartment where an embittered man manipulated the punch bowl and was in great request. As soon as she had seen all her guests fully occupied with chicken salad and fish croquettes, Lady Cheyne returned to the deserted drawing-room where she found Chalfont and Lola in deep conversation. She burst upon them like a hand grenade, crying, “Aren’t they darlings? Every one a genius and all of them hungry. They come to me like homing pigeons and I do my best to get them placed. Always I have here one or two of the great impressarios,—agents, you know, and sometimes I achieve the presence of an actor-manager. But Shakespeare is out of fashion now and so all my Romeos and Juliets stand a poor chance. I often sigh for dear Sir Herbert who came here for what he called ‘atmosphere and local color.’ You must come again, my dear. Peter will be very glad to bring you, I’m sure, and I shall be delighted to have you for my week-end parties. I have a place at Whitecross, Bucks. The garden runs down to the Fallaray place, you know.”
From that point on, that big point, Lola ceased to listen.
The whole evening had been filled with amazing sensations. Panic, the sudden switch to reassurance, the excitement of meeting Chalfont, the sweeping joy of touching Fallaray’s hand and the knowledge that having broken through the hoop she could now continue to emerge from Dover Street with her new and eager companion to serve an apprenticeship for her final rôle. She had lived a year in an evening. But there was still another sensation lying in wait for her. The moment had come when she must return unseen to Castleton Terrace and get back to Dover Street in good time to reassume the part of lady’s maid so that she might not be caught by the housekeeper and reported,—a chance for which Miss Breezy was eagerly waiting. And as she sat unconscious of Lady Cheyne’s babble and the buzz of conversation which drifted in from the dining room, she switched on her brain.
How, in the name of all that was wonderful, was she to give Chalfont the slip. That was the new problem to solve; because, of course, he would naturally insist on seeing her home in the ordinary course of events. If he had thought about it at all, she knew that he must have imagined that she was staying either at the Ritz, the Carlton or the Berkeley, or that she was living in one of the smaller houses in Curzon Street, Half Moon Street or Norfolk Street, Park Lane. The jagged end of panic settled upon her once more and her hands grew icy. It was utterly essential to her future plans that Chalfont should remain in complete ignorance of her identity. He must be used by her during the remainder of the season. He must bring her again to this house. Lady Cheyne had become an important factor in her scheme because the garden of her country house ran down to Chilton Park. It was to Chilton Park that Fallaray loved to go alone for the week-end and wander about, gaining refreshment for his tired brain; and always it had seemed to Lola, when she had dared to look into the future, that this place, standing high up on the ridge of hills above the vale of Aylesbury, backed by a great beech forest and landmarked by the white cross that had been cut by the Romans, was the first milestone on her road to love and to the fulfillment of the dream which had held her all those years.
The problem of her escape and her Cinderella flight became more and more pressing. What fib could she invent to tell Chalfont? Without any doubt he would ask her for permission to call. He would want to know her telephone number and her address. In his eye already there was the Simpkins look, the Ernest Treadwell expression and, but for his innate chivalry and breeding, she knew that he would have given tongue to some of the things which she could see at the back of his eyes. It was past eleven. She had heard the clock in the hall strike just now.
She began to rehearse a series of scenes. She saw herself rise and say, “I must go now. A thousand thanks for all that you have done for me this evening. Will you please ask Lady Cheyne if I may have a taxi?” She saw herself standing on the doorstep, the taxi waiting, with Chalfont assuming that he was to play the cavalier and eventually stand bareheaded, holding her hand, opposite the shabby little villa in Castleton Terrace. Which would never do. Madame de Brézé did not live anywhere near Queen’s Road, Bayswater.
She saw herself driven by Chalfont to the Ritz or the Carlton, escorted by him to the lift where he would wait to see the last of her as she was taken up to the rooms that she did not possess. That also was impossible. Great heavens, what was she to do? Trying again, her hands icier than ever, she saw Chalfont with growing incredulity listening to cock-and-bull stories which ran like this:
“I don’t want you to see me home. As a matter of fact I’m very old-fashioned.” Or, “We must say good night here. I’m staying with a puritanical aunt who will be sure to ask me who brought me home and when I say, ‘Sir Peter Chalfont’ her answer will be ‘I didn’t know you knew Sir Peter Chalfont. Where did you meet him?’ And then I shall have to tell the story of how you picked me up. Can you imagine the result?”—And this was hopeless because, of course, Peter would say, “How in the name of all that’s marvelous will your good old aunt know who brings you home? Good old aunts haven’t got to know the truth. Besides, if it comes to that, you can drop me about ten doors from the house and then go on alone. It’s perfectly easy, and it’s done every day.” And who, after all, was this aunt? Miss Breezy, the housekeeper.
Phew!
And then came an inspiration. “I’m very hungry,” she said aloud. “I begin to remember that dinner was a little unsatisfactory.” She laughed and Peter laughed. “But I must go and powder my nose. Please don’t bother, Lady Cheyne. I’ll find my way and rejoin you in a moment.”