But they didn’t go to the Coliseum, after all. It so happened that just as they were about to leave the Savoy, Chalfont was pounced upon by a little woman, the sight of whom made Lola long to burst into a laugh. She was amazingly fat, almost as fat indeed as one of those pathetic women who go round with circuses and sit in a tent all by themselves dressed in tinsel and present an unbelievable leg to gaping yokels and say, “Pinch it, dearie, and see for yourself.” Her good-natured face, with eyes as blue as birds’ eggs, ran down into three double chins. It was crowned with a mass of hair dyed a brilliant yellow, the roots of which grew blackly like last year’s leaves under spring’s carpet. With an inconceivable lack of humor she was dressed like a flapper. She was a comic note in a tragic world. “Oh, hello, Peter,” she said. “You bad boy, you’ve deserted me,” and then she looked at Lola with a beaming smile of appreciation and added, “No wonder.” More than a little annoyed, because the one thing that he most wanted was to keep Lola to himself, Peter presented his cork hand. “I’ve been in the country,” he said. “I’m awfully sorry I had to miss your party. Lady Cheyne—Madame de Brézé.” “There, I knew you were French. I’ve been betting on it ever since you came in. We could see you two from our table.” She waved her hand towards a group of six or seven people who were standing at the top of the stairs. “Come along home with me now,” she said. “We’re going to have some music. I’ve got a new Russian violinist—you needn’t be afraid, he’s been thoroughly disinfected—and a dear thing who sings the roof off. I can’t pronounce her name. It’s a cross between a sneeze and an oath. I believe she comes from Czecho-Slovakia. Also I’ve got Alton Cartridge, the poet. He’s going to read one of his latest effusions. He’s the great futurist, you know. That is, he doesn’t bother himself about rhymes and not very much about reason. Why don’t you both come?” Chalfont looked quickly at Lola and signaled, “For God’s sake, no.” So she said, “I should love to.” The name and fame of Lady Cheyne was well known to her through the medium of the “Letters of Evelyn.” “That’s very sweet of you, my dear. One hundred Kensington Gore. Memorize it, because I know that Peter will forget. He always does. We can’t raise a car between us so we’re all going in taxis. See you later then.” She squeezed Lola’s hand, nodded roguishly at Peter and bounced away to join her friends, watched hypnotically by people on their way out who, although she was one of London’s landmarks, had never seen her before. Chalfont was abominably disappointed. It would have been so jolly to have had Lola all to himself. “Wasn’t that rather unkind of you?” he asked. “Yes,” said Lola, “it was, but I couldn’t resist the chance to see Lady Cheyne at home and discover if all the stories about her are true. I’m so sorry, but after all we can do the Coliseum another night.”