“It isn't. And you know it.”
She is a most disconcerting creature. I accepted the rebuke meekly. What else could I do?
“Why, then, do you have it here?”
“It's a present from Anastasius,” she said. “Every time he comes to see me he brings what he calls an 'offrande''. All these things”—she indicated, with a comprehensive sweep of the arm, the Union Jack cushion, the little men mounting ladders inside bottles, the hen sitting on her nest, and the other trumpery gimcracks—“all these things are presents from Anastasius. It would hurt him not to see them here when he calls.”
“You might have a separate cabinet,” I suggested.
“A chamber of horrors?” she laughed. “No. It gives him more pleasure to see them as they are—and a poor little freak doesn't get much out of life.”
She sighed, and picking up “A Present from Margate” kind of mug, fingered it very tenderly.
I went away feeling angry. Was the woman bewitching me? And I felt angrier still when I met Lady Kynnersley at dinner that evening. Luckily I had only a few words with her. Had I done anything yet with regard to Dale and the unmentionable woman? If I had told her that I had spent a most agreeable afternoon with the enchantress, she would not have enjoyed her evening. Like General Trochu of the Siege of Paris fame, I said in my most mysterious manner, “I have my plan,” and sent her into dinner comforted.
But I had no plan. My next interview with Madame Brandt brought me no further. We have established telephonic communications. Through the medium of this diabolical engine of loquacity and indiscretion, I was prevailed on to accompany her to a rehearsal of Anastasius's cats.
Rogers, with a face as imperturbable as if he was announcing the visit of an archbishop, informed me at the appointed hour that Madame Brandt's brougham was at the door. I went down and found the brougham open, as the day was fine, and Lola Brandt, smiling under a gigantic hat with an amazing black feather, and looking as handsome as you please.