“Why do you look like that, then?” Her hand fell away from his coat. If there was nothing wrong with her parents—— He edged her away from the cab and spoke quickly, without the usual stammer and timidity. He was laboring under a passion of apprehension. It made him almost rude. “I came this way round from the Tube and saw you get out of this cab dressed up like a—a lady. What are you doing? Where’ve you been?” He caught her by the wrist, excited by a sense of impending evil. Oh, God, how he loved this girl! And Lola remembered this, although her brain was filled with pictures of the Savoy, of Chalfont and of Fallaray. Irritation, in which was mingled a certain degree of haughtiness, was dropped immediately. She knew that she had always been enthroned in this boy’s heart. She must respect his emotion. “Don’t worry about me, Ernie,” she said, soothingly. “Lady Feo gave me the dress. I changed into it at Mrs. Rumbold’s and brought it back for her to work on again. It isn’t quite right.” “But where could you go to wear a thing like that—and the cloak? You looked so—so unlike——” He could only see her as she used to be behind the shop counter and out for walks with him. And Lola gave a little reassuring laugh because an answer was not ready. If instead of Ernest Treadwell the man who held her up had been Simpkins! “One of the girls had two stalls for the St. James’s—her brother’s in the box office—and so we both dressed up and went. It was great fun.” Why did these men force her into lying? She took her hand away. “Oh,” he said, “I see,” his fear rising like a crow and taking wings. “And now if you’ve finished playing the glaring inquisitor, I’ll say good night.” She gave him her hand again. Covered with the old timidity, he remained where he stood and gazed. There was something all about her, a glow, a light; a look in her eyes that he had put there in his dreams. “Can’t I go with you to Dover Street?” Why not? Yes, that might be good, in case Simpkins should be waiting. “Come along then. You’ve made me late. Tell him where to go.” The cab turned into Queen’s Road and as it passed the narrow house with the jeweler’s shop below—all in darkness now—Lola leaned forward and kissed her hand to it. Her father with the glass in his eyes, the ready laugh, the easy-going way, the confidence in her; her capable mother, a little difficult to kiss, peeping out of a shell; her own old room so full of memories, the ground in which she grew. They were slipping behind. They had almost been specks on the horizon during all that eventful night, during which she had found her wings. And this Treadwell boy, his feet in a public library, his soul among the stars, such clothes and such an accent.—And now there were Chalfont and Lady Cheyne and—Fallaray? No, not yet. But he had touched her hand and heard the songs of birds.