Ernest Treadwell faced her at the bottom of the steps, and beneath the peak of his flabby cap his eyes were filled with fright.
“Is anything the matter with Father or Mother?”
“No,” he said.
“Why do you look like that, then?” Her hand fell away from his coat. If there was nothing wrong with her parents——
He edged her away from the cab and spoke quickly, without the usual stammer and timidity. He was laboring under a passion of apprehension. It made him almost rude. “I came this way round from the Tube and saw you get out of this cab dressed up like a—a lady. What are you doing? Where’ve you been?” He caught her by the wrist, excited by a sense of impending evil. Oh, God, how he loved this girl!
And Lola remembered this, although her brain was filled with pictures of the Savoy, of Chalfont and of Fallaray. Irritation, in which was mingled a certain degree of haughtiness, was dropped immediately. She knew that she had always been enthroned in this boy’s heart. She must respect his emotion.
“Don’t worry about me, Ernie,” she said, soothingly. “Lady Feo gave me the dress. I changed into it at Mrs. Rumbold’s and brought it back for her to work on again. It isn’t quite right.”
“But where could you go to wear a thing like that—and the cloak? You looked so—so unlike——” He could only see her as she used to be behind the shop counter and out for walks with him.
And Lola gave a little reassuring laugh because an answer was not ready. If instead of Ernest Treadwell the man who held her up had been Simpkins! “One of the girls had two stalls for the St. James’s—her brother’s in the box office—and so we both dressed up and went. It was great fun.” Why did these men force her into lying? She took her hand away.
“Oh,” he said, “I see,” his fear rising like a crow and taking wings.