“I think,” said Lola with naïve gravity, “that it’s better to play a leading part in life than to be in the chorus on the stage. Cleverer acting is required, too, don’t you think so?” A leading part in life? Simpkins was worried. Would she consider the wife of a man who owned the “Black Bell” at Wargrave to be a leading part? “You’re not ambitious, are yer?” he asked, peering at her patrician profile. “Oh,” she said, “Oh,” and suddenly threw out her hands. And then the lights went out and the buzz of talking ceased gradually as though bees were retiring in platoons from a feeding place. IV They walked to Trafalgar Square. Lola was still in the old garden of Miss Nell among the Creoles and the music of the Mardi Gras frolickers. She had no ears for the expert criticisms of her escort. There were plenty of unoccupied taxis scouting for fares but Lola pulled up under the shadow of the National Gallery to watch the big play of life for a moment or two. From force of a habit which she had not yet conquered, she looked up at the sky, half expecting to see the great white beams of searchlights swing and stammer until they focussed upon something that looked like a silver fish, and then to twinge under the quick reports of anti-aircraft guns. Twice during the War she had been caught on that spot during a raid and had stood transfixed to the pavement between fright and a keen desire to see the show. Memories of those never-to-be-forgotten incidents, small as they were and of no consequence in the story of the War—the loss of a few well-fed noncombatants who made themselves targets for stray shrapnel because they wouldn’t dip like rabbits into funk holes—came back to her then, as well they might. The War’s evidences forced themselves every day upon the notice even of those who desired to forget,—the processions of unemployed with their rattling collection boxes among the ugliest of them all. Big Ben struck the quarter and Lola returned to earth. “Simpky,” she said, “cab, quick.” And he called one and gave the address. And then she began again to hear what the valet was saying. He had used up Miss Nell o’ New Orleans and had come to Miss Lola of Queen’s Road, Bayswater. “Look ’ere, can’t we do this often, you and me? We can always sneak off when there’s a dinner on or Lady Feo’s out in the push. It don’t cost much and I’ve got plenty of money.” “I should like to very much,” said Lola. “Once a fortnight, say. You see, I go home every Wednesday night. I don’t think we ought to do it more often than once a fortnight because, after all, I feel rather responsible to Auntie and I don’t want to set a bad example to the other girls.” “Well, promise you won’t go out with the other men. I let you into the ’ouse first, don’t forget that, and that was a sort of omen to me and if you could bring yourself to look upon me as—well——” He broke off nervously and ran his hand over his forehead, which was damp with excitement.