“The inn at Wargrave would have been so nice. He said that it had an orchard on one side and a large lawn running down to the river on the other, shaded with old trees,—little tables underneath and lovers’ nooks and sweet peas growing in tubs. Ah, how nice after Queen’s Road, Bayswater. And your father could have fished for hours and I could have rearranged the furniture—and very good furniture too, he said—and made things look spick and span. And he’s a good man, is Albert Simpkins, a very unusual man, educated, religious, honest, with a sort of white flame burning in him somewhere. He would have made a good husband, dearie.—However, I suppose you know best.” And she threw an anxious glance at her little girl who had become, if anything, more of an enigma to her than ever. It didn’t matter about the apron that she wore; nor did the fact that she was very efficiently cleaning that silver thing detract from the new and subtle dignity and poise that she had acquired. And her accent, and her choice of words,—they were those of Mrs. Breezy’s favorite actress who played fashionable women. It was very extraordinary. What a good ear the child must have and what a very observant eye,—rather like her father’s, although he had to be assisted by a microscope. “You won’t think it over, I suppose?” she asked finally, long after Lola had believed the subject to be closed. Mothers have an amazing way of recurring to old arguments. But Lola shook her head again and gave a little gesture that was peculiarly French, as who should say, “My dear! Marriage!”
As soon as the shop was opened and Mrs. Breezy was on duty and John Breezy was humming softly over his most monotonous job, Lola went upstairs to the little bedroom which she had completely outgrown now, put on her hat and presently slipped out of the house. All the usual musicians were already at work on the curbstone of Queen’s Road. The strains of “Annie Laurie” were mixed with those of “Son o’ Mine” and there was one daring creature with a concertina who was desecrating Gounod’s “Ave Maria.” Perambulators cluttered the pavements and eager housewives were in earnest conversation with butchers and greengrocers who had arranged their wares temptingly outside their shops so that they could be handled and considered and sampled. Lola made her way to Kensington Gardens filled with a desire which had been growing upon her ever since she woke up to make another Cinderella dash into the great world. She was seized with another overpowering eagerness to meet Fallaray on his own level. He was to be in town over the week-end. She knew that. The Government, as though it had not already enough troubles to contend with—Germany haggling and France ready to fly at her throat and America hiding her head in the sand of dead shibboleths like an ostrich—was in the throes of the big strike and its members were hurrying from one conference to another with the labor leaders. Lady Feo away, she had a wonderful chance to use that night and nothing would be easier than to dress once more at Mrs. Rumbold’s and slip into her mother’s house with a latchkey. But she was not able to go into the Gardens because they had been closed to the public. They had been turned over to the military to be used as a center for the mobilization of supplies. She could see men in khaki everywhere, going about their work with a sort of merry energy. “Back to the army agin, Sergeant, back to the army agin.” Unconcerned by the crisis which had fallen upon England and unable to wander along her favorite paths, she turned away just at the moment when a large car, followed by a line of motor busses and heterogeneous traffic, was being held up by a policeman to enable a company of boy scouts to cross the high road. She heard a shout. She saw a man in khaki with a red band round his cap and much brass on its peak and two long lines of ribbons on his chest become suddenly athletic under the stress of great excitement. The next instant her hand was seized and she looked up. It was Chalfont.
“I was just going to think about you,” she said.
“I’ve never stopped thinking of you,” said Chalfont. “What became of you? Where did you go? Where have you been? I searched every hotel in the town. I’ve been almost through every street, like Gilbert à Beckett, calling your name. Good God, why have you played with me like this?”
Somehow, for all his height and finish, in spite of his uniform and his big car and his obvious importance, he reminded her of Simpkins. (“Lola, I love you.”) The same emotion was in the voice, the same desire in the eyes. What was there in her that made her do this thing to men,—while the one man was unattainable, unapproachable? It was a difficult world.
“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I had to go away that night. But I was just on the verge of thinking about you again. You can’t think how glad I am to see you.”
Still holding her hand as though he would never let her escape, Chalfont mastered his voice. “You little lovely de Brézé,” he said, not choosing his words. “You strange little bird. I’ve caught you again and I’ve a damned good mind to clip your wings and put you in a cage.”
And Lola laughed. “I’ve always been a canary,” she said, “and some day you may find me in a cage.” But she didn’t add, “not your cage, however golden.” Fallaray’s was the only cage and if that were made of bits of stick it would be golden to her.
“Well, you’re back in town. That’s the chief thing. Get into my car and I’ll drive you home and let’s do something to-night. Let’s dine at the Savoy or the Carlton. I don’t care. Or don’t let’s dine. Anything you like, so long as you’re with me. I’ve got to go along to the War Office now, but I have my evening off, like any factory hand.” And he drew her towards the car, which was waiting by the curb.
“You can drive me as far as Marble Arch,” said Lola. “I must leave you there because I want to buy something in Bond Street.”