At eleven o'clock Lola was anxiously awaiting his arrival, and when he entered her little sitting-room she flew to kiss his hand, her usual extravagant form of greeting. George, like all Englishmen, hated scenes, and these Lola was always making. In vain had he tried to break her of these melodramatic tendencies. Her hot Southern blood would not cool, and she overwhelmed him with protestations of more than friendship. Of these he took no notice, and as it takes two to make love as well as to make a quarrel, Lola was yet far from gaining her heart's desire. This was a formal offer of marriage.
Having just returned from the music-hall, Lola wore a loose tea-gown of scarlet trimmed with glittering jet. It was a bizarre garment, but the vivid color suited her dark face and Southern looks. She was rather tall, very slender, and she moved with the dangerous grace of a pantheress. Her face was oval, sallow and thin, with ever-changing expressions. She was never two minutes the same, but her prevailing mood was one of fierce intensity. The smoldering fire in her great black eyes blazed into passionate love as she swept forward to greet her visitor.
"My deliverer, my adored!" she cried in moderately good English, and kissed his hand with burning lips.
George snatched it away. "Don't, Lola. You know I hate that sort of thing!" And so saying he threw down his coat and hat on the sofa at the far end of the room.
Lola shrugged her shoulders and coiled up a tress of her black hair which had come loose. Putting it in its place, she glanced into the mirror over the fireplace to see that her comb was at the right angle. She wore a diamond comb in the Spanish fashion. So fond was she of jewels that George sometimes fancied she must have Jewish blood in her veins. All her savings went in jewels--diamonds for choice. "They are pretty," Lola would say when Brendon remonstrated with her, "and when I am poor they can be changed into money. Oh, yes, why not?"
"Ah, but you are a cold blood, you English man," she said in allusion to Brendon's action. "But what would you--it is the fogs and cold snows. Come, my friend, to the table--to the table."
She clapped her hands, and seizing George by the arm forced him into a seat. The supper looked very tempting. Lola had an eye for the beautiful, and arranged the table herself. A tall silver lamp with a pink shade shed a roseate light on the white cloth, the glittering crystal, and the quaint silver spoons and forks. Lola had picked up these things at odd times and displayed very good taste in her selection. In the center of the table was an oval silver dish filled with pink roses. "What extravagance!" said George.
"Ah, bah! I got them from San Remo--from a friend of mine," said Lola, removing a dish-cover; "they cost me not one sou. George, my dear friend, the Chianti is in the flask there, and this macaroni? Eh?" George passed his plate. The viands were cooked in the Italian fashion, and there was a foreign air about the supper which was grateful after a long course of English cooking. What with the foreign dishes, the pink-shaded lamp, and the candles likewise in pink shades on mantelpiece and sideboard, George felt as though he were in a Soho restaurant. The night was cold, he was hungry, and the supper, with its surroundings, was novel. He therefore made a good meal. Lola watched him eat with satisfaction.
"Ah, you like my housekeepers," she said, meaning housekeeping; "it is to your mind. Yes? Eh, my friend, I could feed you as fat as pigs if you would but allow me."
"I don't want to be fat," retorted George, reaching for the Chianti. "Give me a cigarette, Lola."