“Why did you then, if I may say so,—de Brézé. I’m sorry too, but really I hear so many names, just as odd.—If it’s about being photographed, please no. I’m far too fat. Or if it’s about a subscription for the starving children of Cochin China, I have too many starving children of my own.” Quick, de Brézé, quick, before the good old lady cuts off. “The Savoy, the little widow, Sir Peter Chalfont, your wonderful house so full of genius, and what do you do, my dear.—Don’t you remember, dear Lady Cheyne?” “Oh,—let me think now.” (The tone was brighter, interest was awakening! Good for you, de Brézé.) “My dear Peter with the comic-tragic leg—no, arm—the Savoy——” “You were with Alton Cartridge and the disinfected Russian violinist, and you betted on my being French and invited me to Whitecross and when I went up to powder my nose——” “You never came back! Golden hair like butter-cups, wide-apart eyes and fluttering nostrils, a mouth designed for kissing and all about you the rattle of sex. You dear thing! How sweet of you to ring me up and on a Sunday too. Where on earth did you go?” Go on, de Brézé, go on! A little mystery, a touch of sadness, a hint of special confidence, flattery, flattery. “Ah, if only I could see you. I dare not explain that sudden disappearance over the telephone,—which must have seemed so rude. You are the only woman in all the world who could keep an amazing secret and advise a troubled woman in a tangle of romance——” “Secret, romance—who but Poppy for that!” It worked, it worked! Lola could _see_ the kind little lady struggle into a sitting posture, alert and keen, her vanity touched. Go on, de Brézé, go on. “Ever since then I’ve been thinking of you, dear Lady Cheyne, and, at last, this morning, on the spur of the moment, longing for help, driven into a corner, remembering your kind invitation to Whitecross——” “My dear, you excite me and I adore excitement. Of course you must see me, at once. But to-day’s impossible. I’ve a thousand things to do. And to-morrow—let me see now. How can I fit you in? Probably you don’t want to be seen at my house or the Savoy, you mysterious thing. So what can we arrange? I know. I have it. Quite French and appropriate. Meet me on the sly at a place where no one ever would dream of our being. Mrs. Rumbold’s, a jobbing dressmaker. I’m going to see her to-morrow to alter some clothes. Castleton Terrace, Bayswater, 22. She used to work for me. A poor half-starved soul, but so useful. Half-past eleven. And we’ll arrange for a week-end at my place, perhaps, or elsewhere, wherever you like.” “Oh, Whitecross, Whitecross,—it sounds so right.” “And, it is so right,—romance in every rose bowl. To-morrow then, and I shall love to see you, my dear, and thank you for thinking of Poppy. I’m so excited. Good-by.” “Good-by, dearest Lady Cheyne,—a thousand thanks.” Well played, de Brézé. That’s the way to do it. Keep on like that and prove your grit, my dear.