Chalfont maintained his balance. Training told. He gave it fifty seconds—fifty extraordinary seconds—during which he asked himself, “Is she—or not?” Deciding not by a unanimous vote, he went across to her and bowed. “I’m awfully afraid that something must have happened. Can I be of use to you?”
“I’m longing for asparagus,” said Lola in the manner of an old friend.
“That’s perfectly simple,” said Chalfont, blinking just once. “I’m alone, you’re alone, and asparagus ought to be good just now.”
“Suppose we go in then,” said Lola, buying the hotel, her blood dancing, her eyes all free from fright. She was perfectly happy in the presence of this man because she recognized in him immediately a modern version of the Chevalier who had so frequently brought her bonbons to her room at Versailles which overlooked the back yard of Queen’s Road, Bayswater.
“My name’s Chalfont, Peter Chalfont.” A rigid conventionality sat on his shoulders.
“I know,” she said, and added without a moment’s hesitation, “I am Madame de Brézé.” And then she knew how she knew. How useful was the Tatler. Before the War, during the War, after the War, the eyes of this man had stared at her from its pages in the same spirit of protection. That very afternoon she had paused at his photograph taken in hunting kit, sitting on his horse beside the Prince of Wales, underneath which was printed, “Sir Peter Chalfont, Bart. V. C. Late Brigadier General,”—and somewhere among that crowd was Fallaray.
As they went down the red-carpeted stairs and passed through what Peter called “the monkey house,” the people who had dined at a cheap restaurant and now at the cost of a cup of coffee were there to watch the menagerie followed Lola with eager eyes. Some of them recognized Chalfont. But who was she? A chorus girl? No. A sister? He was certainly not wearing a brotherly expression. A lady? Obviously, and one who could afford not to wear a single jewel. What a refreshing contrast to the wives of profiteers. And she was so young, so finished,—a Personality. Even Grosvenor Bones, the man who made it his duty to know everybody and supplied the _Daily Looking Glass_ with illiterate little paragraphs, was puzzled and, like a dramatic critic who sees something really original and faultless, startled, disconcerted.