The drawing-room, wide and lofty, was one great square of bad taste, filled, overfilled, with what America aptly calls “junk.” Spurious Italian furniture jostled with imitation English oak. Huge pieces of fake tapestry hung on the walls side by side with canvases of extremely self-conscious nudes. Early Victorian whatnots covered with silver apostle spoons jostled with Tottenham Court Road antiques. All the lamp shades on the numerous electric lamps were red and heavy, so that the light crept through. To add to the conglomeration of absurdities the whole place reeked with burning josh sticks. A woman who dyes her hair a brilliant yellow invariably burns something on the altar of renewed optimism. The only thing that rang true in the room was the grand piano and that was kept in tune. Sprawling on divans which were ranged around the walls Lola could make out the forms of men and women of all sizes, ages and nationalities. The men had more hair than the women. There must have been at least sixty people present, among whom Peter Chalfont looked like a greyhound and Lola like an advertisement of somebody’s soap. A tremendous woman, standing with her feet wide apart like a sea captain in a gale, or a self-conscious golfer on the first tee, was singing Carmen’s most flamboyant song. She was accompanied by a little person of the male gender whose lank black locks flapped over his eyes. They seemed to be competing in making the most noise because when the pianist attempted to overwhelm the voice with all the strength that he possessed, the singer filled herself with breath, gripped the floor with her well-trained feet, and sent forth sounds that must have been excessively trying to the Albert Memorial. At the end of this shattering event Lady Cheyne bubbled forward and took Lola’s hand. “What do you do, my dear?” she asked, as though she were a performing dog to be put through her tricks. To which Lola replied, “Nothing. Nothing at all,” with rock-like firmness. So the exhibitor of human vanities turned persuasively to Peter. “But you whistle, don’t you?” she asked. And Peter with a stiffening spine replied, “Yes, but only for taxis.” “In that case,” said Lady Cheyne, genuinely astonished that neither of the new arrivals showed any eagerness to jump at her suggestion to advertise, “find a corner somewhere. A little protégée of mine is going to dance for us. She is an interpreter of soul moods. So wonderful and inspiring. You’ll love it, I’m sure.” Obeying orders, Peter led Lola into a distant corner, eyed by various artists who labeled him “Soldier” and dismissed him loftily. The passing of Lola sent a quiver through them and they were ready for the first available opportunity to attitudinize about her chair. At a sign from Lady Cheyne the little pianist commenced to play one of Heller’s “Sleepless Nights” and a very thin girl, wrapped in a small piece of chiffon, dropped into the middle of the room like a beam of moonlight.