“I don’t want you to see me home. As a matter of fact I’m very old-fashioned.” Or, “We must say good night here. I’m staying with a puritanical aunt who will be sure to ask me who brought me home and when I say, ‘Sir Peter Chalfont’ her answer will be ‘I didn’t know you knew Sir Peter Chalfont. Where did you meet him?’ And then I shall have to tell the story of how you picked me up. Can you imagine the result?”—And this was hopeless because, of course, Peter would say, “How in the name of all that’s marvelous will your good old aunt know who brings you home? Good old aunts haven’t got to know the truth. Besides, if it comes to that, you can drop me about ten doors from the house and then go on alone. It’s perfectly easy, and it’s done every day.” And who, after all, was this aunt? Miss Breezy, the housekeeper. Phew! And then came an inspiration. “I’m very hungry,” she said aloud. “I begin to remember that dinner was a little unsatisfactory.” She laughed and Peter laughed. “But I must go and powder my nose. Please don’t bother, Lady Cheyne. I’ll find my way and rejoin you in a moment.” She picked up the cloak which she had brought into the drawing-room, threw at Chalfont a smile of the most charming camaraderie, touched Lady Cheyne’s arm in a way that asked for friendship and left the drawing-room. With one quick look at the deserted hall with all its strange coats and stranger hats, she made for the front door, opened it, closed it behind her stealthily and ran down the stone path which led to the street. The theater traffic was all headed towards High Street, Kensington. There was not a vacant taxi to be seen. It would not do to stand about in front of the house, so the little Cinderella who had not waited for the magic hour of twelve and had taken good care not to leave her crystal slipper behind her ran up the street to the first turning and stood quivering with excitement and glee beneath a friendly lamp post. A little laugh floated into the muggy air. “Yes, it’s a funny world, ain’t it?” It was a Bobby who had sidled up from the shadow of a wall and towered above her, with a sceptical grin about his mouth. Instantly a new thought came into Lola’s head. “What would Lady Feo do?” She gave it five seconds and turned coolly, calmly and graciously to the arm of the law,—a strong and obviously would-be familiar arm. This girl—running about alone in evening dress—at that time of night. “I told my car to wait here,” she said. “Evidently there has been some mistake. Will you be good enough to call me a cab?” A hand swept up to the peak of the helmet. “Nothing simpler, Madam.”