"It strikes me that you do. How did you and Bawdsey come to be talking of this matter?"
"We did not talk." Lola looked down at her foot as she told the lie and moved it restlessly.
George rose and took up his hat. Throwing his coat over his arm, he moved toward the door. "Good-night, mademoiselle."
She sprang to her feet and flew after him. "No! no!" she cried in lively alarm. "You must not go, my dearest dear."
"What is the use of my stopping when you will not show your gratitude toward me by telling the truth?" George hated to make such a speech as this, but it was the only way in which he could move her.
"I will tell! I will tell. Sit down. The coat--you shall not go. I will say all. Ask what you will. Sit, my little cabbage--a wine in the glass--ah, yes!--and a cigarette. Come, be good. Am I mademoiselle?"
"No," said George, smiling on her pleading face, "you are my friend Lola now that you are sensible."
"Ah, only friend!" she said sadly. "But I speak. Yes?"
George began at once to question her, lest the yielding mood should pass away. "You made the acquaintance of Bawdsey at the hall?"
Lola nodded. "He loved me; he sent me flowers; he was made a presentation to me by Kowlaski. I learn that he looks after people, what you call a--a-- un mouchard----"