“Oh, well, then, that’s all right.” He brightened up considerably. “Probably you will be more amused at number One Hundred than you would have been at the Coliseum. Poppy manages to surround herself with all the latest freaks.” He led her out, captured a cab and gave the man the address. “Tell me about her,” said Lola. “You know her very well, it seems.” “No, I don’t. I’ve only met her twice. She arrives at Christian names within half an hour. She calls herself the mother of thousands, and is, although she’s never had a child of her own. Nobody knows who she was before she married Sir William Cheyne, the contractor, but it’s generally believed that she’s the daughter of a country parson brought up between the Bible and the kitchen garden. She tells everybody that she was very pretty as a girl. It’s her horticultural training that makes her look like a cauliflower. The old man died about ten years ago and left her very well off. She’s really a remarkable little soul, greatly to be respected. Every struggling artist who has ever found his way into London has been financed by her. She has a heart of gold and during the War she was the chairman of one of the soldiers’ entertainment committees. I shall never forget seeing her behind the lines, surrounded by muddy Tommies just relieved. She was a prime favorite out there and was known as Poppy throughout the British Army. How long are you going to be in London?” He switched suddenly to personalities. “For the rest of the season,” said Lola, “and then my plans are uncertain. I may go down to Buckinghamshire or I may spend July at Dinard. It isn’t settled yet.” She had heard Lady Feo talk over both places with Mrs. Malwood. “I wonder if I’ve met your husband about London?” “I am a widow,” said Lola. Her tone was a little sad but, at the same time, it was filled with resignation. That was something to know. There was no further information forthcoming, however, and as Peter was one of those men who had a great respect for fourth walls, he left it at that. They were the last to arrive. Their cab had stalled three times in Piccadilly and coughed badly through Knightsbridge. Every window of number One Hundred was alight and as they entered the hall a high soprano voice was sending piercing vibrations all through the house. A long oak settle in the hall was covered with strange coats and stranger hats and there were queer people sitting on the stairs. The drawing-room was obviously overflowing. Lola picked her way upstairs, Chalfont following closely. Among these people who conveyed the impression of having slept in their clothes—Art is always a little shy of cold water—Lola felt a sense of distress. Democratic in her ability to make friends with all honest members of the proletariat, like those in the servants’ sitting room in Dover Street, she felt hopelessly aristocratic when it came to affection with dandruff on its velvet collar.