But somehow—what was it in her that did these things to men—Lola could see the inn at Wargrave, its orchard and its smooth lawn with little tables under the trees and the silver stream near by, and hear the words, “I love you, Lola; am I good enough——” And she shook her head. “No more,” she said. “They’re lovely,” took them from the man and put them to her lips. Chalfont gave his name and followed her to the street. “Now where?” he asked. Lola held out her hand. “Nowhere else. I’m walking. A thousand thanks. Seven-thirty, the Carlton then.” And once more Chalfont saluted, not as though to a company of boy scouts but to a queen. And when he had gone, Lola heaved a great big sigh and put the roses to her heart. If they had come from Chilton Park—if Fallaray had cut them for her—If. PART V I Fallaray had been lunching with George Lytham at his rooms in the Albany. There had been half a dozen of the men who backed _Reconstruction_ to meet him. From one o’clock until three every one of the numerous troubles which affected England had been discussed and argued about,—disarmament, unemployment, the triple alliance, Mesopotamia, Indian unrest, the inevitable Ireland, the German chicanery and the hot-tempered attitude of France in the matter of Ruhr; and, as though with an impish desire to invent new troubles, George Lytham had brought up the subject of Bolshevism in the universities. Every one of the men present had, of course, his own pet solution to these questions, and as usual, argument had run about like a terrier out for a walk,—backwards and forwards and in circles. Finally, with his head in a whirl, Fallaray had broken up the party to go along to the House. He was down to answer questions from the critics of the Government, and, according to his custom, to dodge the truth as far as he could. He walked out into Piccadilly with his host and together these two tall men, who were giving themselves up to an apparently abortive attempt to put together again the peace of the world—deliberately and ruthlessly smashed by the country which now whined and squealed and cried out excuses while it hid money and machine guns in secret places—made for Westminster arm in arm. “Where’s your car?” asked young Lochinvar. “I gave it up,” said Fallaray. “The sight of our unemployed going about in processions made the keeping of a car grotesque. I’ve tried to cut down in every other way too. If I were a bachelor, I would let the house in Dover Street, go and live in two rooms and give the money I thus saved to the fund for out-of-work soldiers. I can’t do that. There’s Feo.”