I lit a cigarette and sat down. There was a long silence. In some unaccountable way she had me under her spell again. I felt a perfectly insane dismay at the prospect of ending this queer intimacy, and I viewed her intrigue with Dale with profound distaste. Lola had become a habit. The chair I was sitting in was _my_ chair. Adolphus was _my_ dog. I hated the idea of Dale making him stand up and do sentry with the fire shovel, while Lola sprawled gracefully on the hearthrug. On the other hand the thought of remaining in London and sharing with my young friend the privilege of her society was intolerable. I smoked, and, watching her bosom rise and fall as she leaned forward with one arm on the mantelpiece, argued it out with myself, and came to the paradoxical conclusion that I could pack her off without a pang to Kamtchatka and the embraces of her unknown husband, but could not hand her over to Dale without feelings of the deepest repugnance. A pretty position to find myself in. I threw away my cigarette impatiently. Presently she said, not stirring from her pose: “I shall miss you terribly if you go. A man like you doesn't come into the life of a common woman like me without”--she hesitated for a word--“without making some impression. I can't bear to lose you.” “I shall be very sorry to give up our pleasant comradeship,” said I, “but even if I stay and send the private inquiry agent instead of going myself, I shan't be able to go on seeing you in this way.” “Why not?” “It would be scarcely dignified.” “On account of Dale?” “Precisely.” There was another pause, during which I lit another cigarette. When I looked up I saw great tears rolling down her cheeks. A weeping woman always makes me nervous. You never know what she is going to do next. Safety lies in checking the tears--in administering a tonic. Still, her wish to retain me was very touching. I rose and stood before her by the mantelpiece. “You can't have your pudding and eat it too,” said I. “What do you mean?” “You can't have Captain Vauvenarde for your husband, Dale for your _cavaliere servente_, and myself for your guide, philosopher and friend all at the same time.” “Which would you advise me to give up?” “That's obvious. Give up Dale.” She uttered a sound midway between a sob and a laugh, and said, as it seemed, ironically: “Would you take his place?” Somewhat ironically, too, I replied, “A crock, my dear lady, with one foot in the grave has no business to put the other into the _Pays du Tendre_.” But all the same I had an absurd desire to take her at her word, not for the sake of constituting myself her _amant en titre_, but so as to dispossess the poor boy who was clamouring wildly for her among his mother's snuffy colleagues in Berlin. “That's another reason why I shrink from your going in search of my husband,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Your ill-health.”