There was a burst of welcome, and then Lady Cheyne entered the workroom much in the same way as a broad-beamed cargo-boat floats into harbor. And then followed another surprise for Mrs. Rumbold, who was in for a day of surprises, it appeared. “Well, you dear thing, here you are. Punctual to the minute, as I always am. How are you, and where have you been, and why haven’t you run in to see me, and how sweet you look.” And the kind and exuberant little lady, whose amazing body seemed to require more than one dressmaker to cover it up, drew Lola warmly to her side and kissed her. It is true that she had forgotten her name again. She saw so many people so often who had such weird and unpronounceable names that she never even made an effort to remember any of them. But that golden head and those wide-apart eyes reminded her of the conversation over the telephone, brought back that evening at her house and linked them with the tall figure of the one-armed soldier,—her dear friend Peter something, so good looking, _such_ a darling, but _so_ unkind, never coming near her. “Extraordinary enough, I was thinking of you only a few nights ago. I was dining at the Savoy and the little crowd who were with me spoke of you. They had been with me the night I met you there and were _so_ interested. One of the men said that if I could find you and take you to his concert he would try and draw your lips to his with the power of his art. He often says things like that. But he’s only an artist, so it doesn’t matter. Mrs. Rumstick, I want you to find something to do in the next room until I call you. No, leave my things alone. I’ll explain what has to be done to them in my own good time. That’s right.—We’re alone, my dear. Now tell me all about it.” She sat on a chair that had the right to groan and caught hold of Lola’s hand. “It’s love,” said Lola. “Ah!” “It’s love and adoration and long-deferred hope.” “Oh, my dear, how you excite me!” “And it can’t come right without you.” “Me! Good gracious, but what can I do?” Lola leaned closer. The pathetic farcicality of the dear old lady’s wreaths and becks left the seriousness of all this untouched. She clasped the dimpled hand in both her own and set her will to work. “Bring us together,” she whispered, setting fire to romance, so that Lady Cheyne bobbed up and down. “Help us to meet where no one can see, quickly, quickly. The world is getting old.” “Well, there’s the library at Number One Hundred! No one has ever been in there except me since Willy passed away. You can come there any time you like and not a soul will see you. And he, if he doesn’t mind his trousers, can climb over the back wall, so that he shan’t be seen going into the house. I wouldn’t do it for any one but you, my dear. That room has dear memories for me.”