"Ah, bah! I got them from San Remo--from a friend of mine," said Lola, removing a dish-cover; "they cost me not one sou. George, my dear friend, the Chianti is in the flask there, and this macaroni? Eh?" George passed his plate. The viands were cooked in the Italian fashion, and there was a foreign air about the supper which was grateful after a long course of English cooking. What with the foreign dishes, the pink-shaded lamp, and the candles likewise in pink shades on mantelpiece and sideboard, George felt as though he were in a Soho restaurant. The night was cold, he was hungry, and the supper, with its surroundings, was novel. He therefore made a good meal. Lola watched him eat with satisfaction. "Ah, you like my housekeepers," she said, meaning housekeeping; "it is to your mind. Yes? Eh, my friend, I could feed you as fat as pigs if you would but allow me." "I don't want to be fat," retorted George, reaching for the Chianti. "Give me a cigarette, Lola." She produced her own case, and not only supplied him with one, but insisted on placing it between his lips and on lighting it. George wriggled uncomfortably, but it was no use objecting to Lola's ways. She would indulge her whims at any price. And he did not wish to leave until he had accomplished his mission. "There, little friend," cried Lola, when he was seated comfortably by the fire and she was puffing also at a cigarette, "now we must talk. Why have you not been? Oh! you wicked young boy!" "I have been engaged," replied George, secretly admiring the careless grace with which she was half lying, half sitting in the armchair opposite. She showed a dainty foot encased in a red stocking and a red shoe. Lola was all in crimson from head to foot, save for the jet and her dark face and hair. She looked like some sorceress bent upon unholy conjurations. "Engaged!" she repeated with a flash of her wonderful eyes. "That is words for 'I don't want to come.'" George laughed, shook his head, and changed the subject. Her remark about having a friend in San Remo ran in his mind. "Have you ever been there?" he asked, naming the town. "Ah, bah! have I been anywhere? All Italy I know--all--all." "You know it better than Spain. Yet you are Spanish." "I am whatever you desire, my George. Yes, I am of Spain--of Cadiz, where my parents sold oil to their ruin. They came to Italy, to Milan and made money to live from wine. I was trained to the dance--they died, and I, my friend----" "You told me all this before," interrupted Brendon, ruthlessly. "I ask if you have ever been to San Remo?" "Why, yes, assuredly, and why not?" She looked at him with narrowing eyes as she put the question, blinking like a cat. "There is no reason, only I was thinking----" He paused. "Eh, you think--of what?" "Oh, something which does not concern you, Lola." "All that is of you is to me," she responded. "I love you." "Lola, be reasonable."