Lola Brandt, too, has heard the news, Dale in Berlin, and the London newspapers being her informants. Tears stood in her eyes when I called to learn her decision. Why had I not told her I was so ill? Why had I let her worry me with her silly troubles? Why had I not consulted her friend, Sir Joshua Oldfield? She filled up my chair with cushions (which, like most men, I find stuffy and comfortless), and if I had given her the slightest encouragement, would have stuck my feet in hot mustard and water. Why had I come out on such a dreadful day? It was indeed a detestable day of raw fog. She pulled the curtains close, and, insisting upon my remaining among my cushions, piled the grate with coal half-way up the chimney. Would I like some eucalyptus?
“My dear Madame Brandt,” I cried, “my bronchial tubes and lungs are as strong as a hippopotamus's.”
I wish every one would not conclude that I was going off in a rapid decline.
Lola Brandt prowled about me in a wistful, mothering way, showing me a fresh side of her nature. She is as domesticated as Penelope.
“You're fond of cooking, aren't you?” I asked suddenly.
She laughed. “I adore it. How do you know?”
“I guessed,” said I.
“I'm what the French call a vraie bourgeoise.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said I.
“Are you? I thought your class hated the bourgeoisie.”