She went to the top of the stairs and waited for Lola to come up, smiling and very friendly. She was fond of this girl. She had missed her beyond words,—not only for her services, which were so deft, so sure-fingered, but also for her smile, her admiration. Good little Lola; clever little Lola too, by George. That Carlton episode,—most amusing. And this recent business, which, she remembered, was touched with a sort of—what? Was ecstasy the word? Good fun to know what had happened. Thank the Lord there was going to be a pause between knock-outs, after all. Dressed in her perfectly plain ready-made walking frock, her own shoes and a neat little hat that she had bought in Queen’s Road, Bayswater, Lola came upstairs quickly with her eyes on Feo’s face. She seemed hardly to be able to hold back the words that were trembling on her lips. It was obvious that she had been crying; her lids were red and swollen. But she didn’t look unhappy or miserable, as a girl might if everything had gone wrong; nor in the least self-conscious. She wore neither her expression as lady’s maid, nor that of the young widow to whom some one had given London; but of a mother whose boy was in trouble and must be got out of it, at once, _please_, and helped back to his place among other good boys. “Will you come down to your room, Lady Feo?” she asked. “Mr. Lytham will be here in a few minutes and I want you to see him.” Lytham—young Lochinvar! How priceless if he were the man for whom she had dressed this child up. “Why, of course. But what’s the matter, Lola? You’ve been crying. You look fey.” Lola put her hand on Feo’s arm, urgently. “Please come down,” she said. “I want to tell you something before Mr. Lytham comes.” Well, this seemed to be her favor-granting day, as well as one of those during which Fate had recognized her as being on his book. First Edmund and then Lola,—there was not much to choose between their undisguised egotism. And the lady’s maid business,—that was all over, plainly. George Lytham,—who’d have thought it? If Lola were in trouble, she had a friend in that house. And so, without any more questions, she went back to her futuristic den which, after her brief talk with Fallaray, seemed to belong to a very distant past. But before Lola could begin to tell her story, a footman made his appearance and said that Mr. Lytham was in the hall. “Show him in here,” said Feo and turned to watch the door. She wondered if she would be able to tell from his expression what was the meaning of her being brought into this,—a disinclination on his part to take the blame, or an earnest desire to do what was right under the circumstances? She never imagined the possibility of his not knowing that Lola was a lady’s maid dressed in the feathers of the jay. Unlike Peter Chalfont, who accepted without question, Lytham held things up to the light and examined their marks.