Like all fat women, Lady Cheyne was devoted to eating and had long since decided to let herself go. “One can only live once,” she said, in self-defense; “and how does one know that there’ll be peas and potatoes in the next world.” The dinner, to the loudly expressed satisfaction of the musicians, was substantial and excellent. Each course was received with a volley of welcome, expressed in several languages. The hard exercise of singing, playing, gesticulating, praising and breathing deeply gave these children of the exuberant Muse the best of appetites. It was a shattering meal. But Lola could hear herself think, for all that. She sat smiling and nodding. Her body went through the proper mechanics, but her spirit was outside the gate in the wall, trembling. There was a cloud in the sky, already. Fallaray was going to make her more important than his work, and she had not come to him for that. Her métier was to bring into his loveless life the rustle of silk,—love, tenderness, flattery, refreshment, softness, beauty, laughter, adoration, which would send him out of her secret nest strengthened, humanized, eager, optimistic. She must fail lamentably if the effect of her absorbed him to the elimination of everything that made him necessary to the man who had come from London and to all that he represented. George Lytham, of _Reconstruction_, the organizer of the Anti-waste Party,—she had heard him discussed by Lady Feo. Without Fallaray he might be left leaderless,—because of her. She went upstairs as soon as she could to put on the silver frock. There had been no time to change before dinner. Fallaray had kissed her so often that she had been late. She was joined immediately by Lady, Cheyne, who was anxious. She had seen something in Lola’s eyes. “What is it, my dear?” she asked. “I’m worried about you.” And Lola went to her, as to a mother, and shut her eyes and gave a little cry that seemed to come from her soul. “There’s something wrong!—Has he hurt you? Tell me.” And Lola said, “Oh, no. He would never hurt me, never. He loves me. But I may be hurting him, and that’s so very much worse.” “I don’t understand. You mean—his reputation? But what if you are? We’re all too precious careful to guard the reputations of our politicians, to help them along in their petty careers.” “But he isn’t a politician, and he isn’t working for a career.” She drew away sharply. No one must have a word against Fallaray. “Well, what is it then? I want you to be happy. I want this to be a Great Romance. And, good Heavens, my darling, it’s only three days old.” Lola spoke through tears. Yes, it was only three days old. “He may love me too much,” she said. “I may become more important than his work.”