The porter whistled for a cab. A hansom drove up. As my destination was the Albany, and as I knew Dale was going home to Eccleston Square, I held out my hand.
“Good-bye, Dale. I'll see you to-morrow.”
“But aren't you going to tell me what you think of her?” he cried in great dismay.
The pavement was muddy, the evening dark, and a gusty wind blew the drizzle into our faces. It is only the preposterously young who expect a man to rhapsodise over somebody else's inamorata at such a moment. I turned up the fur collar of my coat.
“She is good-looking,” said I.
“Any idiot can see that!” he burst out impatiently. “I want to know what opinion you formed of her.”
I reflected. If I could have labelled her as the Scarlet Woman, the Martyred Saint, the Jolly Bohemian, or the Bold Adventuress, my task would have been easy. But I had an uncomfortable feeling that Lola Brandt was not to be classified in so simple a fashion. I took refuge in a negative.
“She would hardly be a success,” said I, “in serious political circles.”
With that I made my escape.