“But I’m not marrying,” said Lola.
And that was too much for Feo. She threw the clothes back and kicked up her heels like a schoolgirl. But before she could congratulate her lady’s maid on a delightful bit of acting and an egregious piece of impertinence that was worth all the Sundays in London to watch, the telephone bell rang and brought her back to facts.
“Just see who that is, will you? And before you say I’m here, find out who it is.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Lola. The little game was over. It hadn’t lasted long. But if it had put her ladyship into a generous mood——
It was Mrs. Winchfield, calling up from Aylesbury.
“Oh, well,” said Feo, with the remembrance of great dullness. “Give me the ’phone and get my bath ready. And tell them to let me have lots of breakfast in half an hour, here. I could eat a horse.”
“Very good, my lady.”
And when Lola returned, having carried out her orders and still tingling with the triumph of having proved her courage and her wit, she found Lady Feo lying in the middle of the room, on her back, doing exercises. “All the dullards have left the Winchfields’,” she said. “There’s to be a pucca man there this afternoon, one I’ve had my eye on for weeks. Quick’s the word, Lola. Get me dressed and into the car. This is Sunday and I’m in London. It’s perfectly absurd. I shall stay the night, of course, and I shan’t want you till to-morrow at six. What’ll you do? Lunch at the Carlton?”
“I shall go home, my lady.” But the twinkle returned.
“Oh, yes, of course. I spoilt your holiday, didn’t I? By the way, does your mother know that you’re in society now?”