The woman made a wry face. “Umm,” she said. “You can get awful scraggy on that diet. Keeps yer girlish, I tell yer.” And then she looked up into Lola’s face. It was such a kind face, with so sympathetic a mouth, that she had no hesitation in letting down her professional fourth wall. “I’d be thankful if you could let me have a bit on account, miss,” she added, with rather pathetic whimsicality. “Without any bloomin’ eyewash, not even Sherlock Holmes could find as much as a bob in this house, and I have a bill at the draper’s to be met before I can sail in and give ’em perciflage.” “Nothing easier,” said Lola, who had come armed to meet this very request, having imagination. And out came her little purse and from it five nice pristine one-pound notes which she had most carefully hoarded up out of her wages. And then for an hour and more Lola transferred herself, taking her time, from frock to frock, while Mrs. Rumbold did those intricate things with pins and a pair of scissors which only long practice can achieve. But Lady Cheyne failed to appear. Had she forgotten? Had some one steered her off? Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. Lola’s heart began to sink into her shoes. But just as she was about to lose hope, there was a loud and haughty ring at the bell which sent Mrs. Rumbold helter-skelter to the window, through which she peered eagerly. “Well, upon my word,” she cried in a hoarse whisper. “If you ain’t a bloomin’ mascot. It’s Lady Cheyne who used to be one of my best customers, and I haven’t seen ’er for a year.” And she ran out excitedly and opened the door and hoped her neighbors would be duly impressed by the rather dilapidated Mercedes which was drawn up in front of the house.