The Rustle of Silk
whom she was going, if only she had had, somewhere in all the world, one
sophisticated friend to tell her that such a step as this was false and
might be fatal. The way out was to stand for one more moment and look as
though her escort were late, or had been obliged to go to the telephone,
and then face the fact that in her utter and appalling ignorance she had
made a mistake, slip away, drive back to that dismal Terrace and change
into her Cinderella clothes. Ecstasy approaching madness must have made
her suppose that all she had to do was to sail in to this hotel in Lady
Feo's frock and all the rest would follow,--that looking, as well as
feeling "a lady" now and loving like a woman, something would go out
from her soul--a little call--and Fallaray would rise and come to her.
Mr. Fallaray. The Savoy. They were far, far out of her reach. Her heart
was in her borrowed shoes. And then she became aware of Chalfont, met
his eyes and saw in them sympathy and concern and understanding. And
what was more, she knew this man. Yes, she did. He was no stranger; she
had seen him often,--that very day. It was a rescue! A friendly smile
curled up her lips.
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 Breze." 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.
II
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.
Feeling her own pulse as she passed through the avenue of stares, Lola
was amazed to find that her heart-beats were normal, that she was not in
the least excited or frightened or uncertain of herself any longer. She
felt, indeed--and commented inwardly on the fact--as though dinner at
the Savoy were part of her usual routine, and that Peter Chalfont was
merely Albert Simpkins or Ernest Treadwell in a better coat and cast in
a rarer mold. How Chalfont would have laughed if she had told him this.
She felt, as a matter of fact, like a girl who was playing a leading
part on the London stage as a dark horse, but who had in reality gained
enormous experience in a repertory company in the Provinces. She thanked
her stars that she had indulged in her private game for so long a time.
The bandmaster, a glossy person with a roving and precocious eye, bent
double, violin and all, and signaled congratulations to Chalfont with
ears and eyes, eyebrows and mouth. He had the impertinence of a
successful jockey. A head waiter came to the entrance of the dining room
and washed his hands,--his face wearing his best bedside manner. "For
two, Sir Peter?" he asked, as though he were not quite sure that some
miracle might not break them into three. And Peter nodded. But Lola was
not to be hurried off to the first of the disengaged tables. Fallaray
was somewhere in the room and her scheme was, if possible, to sit at a
table well within his line of vision. She laid the tips of her fingers
on Chalfont's arm and inspected the room.--There was Fallaray, as
noticeable in that heterogeneous crowd as a Rodin figure among the
efforts of amateur sculptors. "That table," she said to the head waiter
and indicated one placed against a pillar. One or two of Chalfont's
friends S. O. S.'d to him as he followed the young, slim erect figure
across the maze. Luck with her once more, Lola found herself face to
face with Fallaray, only two tables intervening. She decided that the
charming old lady was his mother. The other had no interest for her.
A thousand questions ran through Chalfont's head. Madame de
Breze.--Widow of one of the gallant Frenchmen who had been killed in the
War, or the wife, let down by her lover, of an elderly Parisian blood?
He would bet his life against the latter conjecture, and the first did
not seem to be possible because he had never seen any face so free from
grief, pain or suffering. De Breze. The name conveyed nothing. He had
never heard it before. It had a good ring about it. But how was it that
this girl talked English as well as his sister? She looked French. She
wore her dress like a Frenchwoman. There was something about the
neatness of her hair which Frenchwomen alone achieve. Probably educated
in England. He was delighted with her acceptance of the situation. That
was decidedly French. An English girl, even in these days, would either
have frozen him to his shoes or lent to the episode a forced note of
irregularity which would have made it tiresome and tasteless.
It was not until after the asparagus had arrived that Lola succeeded in
catching Fallaray's eyes. They looked at her for a moment as though she
were merely a necessary piece of hotel decoration and wandered off. But
to her intense and indescribable joy, they returned and remained and
something came into them which showed her that he had focused them upon
her as a human being and a woman. She saw that he wore the expression of
a man who had suddenly heard the loud ringing of a bell, an alarm bell.
And then, having seen that his stare had been noticed, he never looked
again.
The rustle of silk!--The rustle of silk!
And presently, Chalfont being silent, she leant forward and spoke in a
low voice. Luckily the band was not playing a jazz tune but at the
request of some old-fashioned person Massenet's "Elegy." She said, "Sir
Peter, will you do something for me?" And he replied, "Anything under
the sun." "Well, then, will you introduce me to Mr. Fallaray before he
leaves the room? He's at a table just behind you. I admire him so much.
It would be a great--the greatest----"
Her voice broke and a flush ran up to her hair, and something came into
her eyes that made them look like stars.
Luckily Chalfont was not looking at her face. Her request was a large
order, and as usual when puzzled,--he was never disconcerted--he began
twisting about his comic cork hand. "Fallaray?" he said, and raised his
eyebrows. "Of course, I'd love to do it for you. I know him as well as
anybody else does, I suppose--I mean ordinary people. But he doesn't
remember me from Adam. He passed me to-night in the foyer, for instance,
and looked clean through my head. I had to put up my hand to see that I
hadn't left it at home. He's the only man, except the sweep who used to
come to our house when I was a kid, of whom I've ever been afraid.
However--you wish it and the thing must be done." And he gave her a
little bow.
Lola could see that she had given her new friend a task from which he
would do almost anything to escape. After all, there was not much in
common between Fallaray, whose nose was at the grindstone, and Peter
Chalfont, who had nothing to do but kill time. But she must meet
Fallaray that night. It was written. Every man was a stepping-stone to
this one man who needed her so, but did not know her yet. Therefore,
with a touch of ruthlessness that came to her directly from her famous
ancestress, she thanked him and added, "It can be managed near the place
where you put your hat and coat."
Chalfont was amused and interested and even perhaps a little astonished
at this pretty young thing who had the ways of a woman of the world. "I
agree with you," he said, "but----" and looked at the menu.
Lola shook her head. "I hate buts. They are at the meat course and we've
only just begun. Dinner doesn't really interest you and I'm a mere
canary. The moment they rise from the table we can make a quick exit."
It was on the tip of her tongue to quote Simpkins and say "nick out."
Chalfont grinned, pounced upon his roll and started to eat. "After all,"
he said, "it will give me an admirable opportunity of inviting you to
supper. Keep an eye on the old birds and as soon as they show a
disposition to evacuate the situation we'll limber up and wait for them
in the foyer. He's a hero of yours. Is that the idea?"
"Yes," she said simply.
"Do you happen to know Lady Feo?"
"Very well, indeed. She has been very kind to me. I like her."
Chalfont shifted his shoulders. That was quite enough. "Are you going to
give me the whole of the evening?" he asked. "Or will that escort of
yours show up sooner or later and claim you?"
"He's as good as dead, as far as I'm concerned. What do you suggest?"
He bent forward eagerly. "I dunno. A show of sorts. Not the theater. I
can't stand that. We might drop into one of the Reviews or see what they
are doing at the Coliseum. I love the red-nosed comedian who falls over
a pin and breaks a million plates in an agony of economical terror. Do
you like that sort of thing?"
Lola's experience of Reviews and Variety entertainments was limited to
Hammersmith and the suburbs. "You're going to do something for me," she
said, "so I am perfectly ready to do something for you. I'm rather keen
about give and take."
Which was good hearing for Chalfont. He hadn't met many women who
understood that golden rule. He could see even then that the little de
Breze was going to play ducks and drakes with his future plans, put him
to a considerable amount of inconvenience and probably keep him hanging
about town,--for which he had very little use now that the sun was
shining. Already Lola's attraction had begun its disturbing effect. He
was on the verge of becoming brother of a valet, a butler, two footmen
and the Lord knew how many of the hobble-de-hoys of Queen's Road,
Bayswater.
The fish came and they both fell to,--Lola watching Fallaray's table
keenly. "I saw a rather decent photograph of you in the _Tatler_
to-day," she said. It might have been Feo who spoke. "You won the point
to point, didn't you?"
"I did," said Chalfont. "But I should have been beaten by the Boy if I
hadn't had a better horse. He rode like the devil."
"You don't think that point to points are rather playing the fool just