The Rustle of Silk
can't raise a car between us so we're all going in taxis. See you later
then."
She squeezed Lola's hand, nodded roguishly at Peter and bounced away to
join her friends, watched hypnotically by people on their way out who,
although she was one of London's landmarks, had never seen her before.
Chalfont was abominably disappointed. It would have been so jolly to
have had Lola all to himself. "Wasn't that rather unkind of you?" he
asked.
"Yes," said Lola, "it was, but I couldn't resist the chance to see Lady
Cheyne at home and discover if all the stories about her are true. I'm
so sorry, but after all we can do the Coliseum another night."
"Oh, well, then, that's all right." He brightened up considerably.
"Probably you will be more amused at number One Hundred than you would
have been at the Coliseum. Poppy manages to surround herself with all
the latest freaks." He led her out, captured a cab and gave the man the
address.
"Tell me about her," said Lola. "You know her very well, it seems."
"No, I don't. I've only met her twice. She arrives at Christian names
within half an hour. She calls herself the mother of thousands, and is,
although she's never had a child of her own. Nobody knows who she was
before she married Sir William Cheyne, the contractor, but it's
generally believed that she's the daughter of a country parson brought
up between the Bible and the kitchen garden. She tells everybody that
she was very pretty as a girl. It's her horticultural training that
makes her look like a cauliflower. The old man died about ten years ago
and left her very well off. She's really a remarkable little soul,
greatly to be respected. Every struggling artist who has ever found his
way into London has been financed by her. She has a heart of gold and
during the War she was the chairman of one of the soldiers'
entertainment committees. I shall never forget seeing her behind the
lines, surrounded by muddy Tommies just relieved. She was a prime
favorite out there and was known as Poppy throughout the British Army.
How long are you going to be in London?" He switched suddenly to
personalities.
"For the rest of the season," said Lola, "and then my plans are
uncertain. I may go down to Buckinghamshire or I may spend July at
Dinard. It isn't settled yet." She had heard Lady Feo talk over both
places with Mrs. Malwood.
"I wonder if I've met your husband about London?"
"I am a widow," said Lola. Her tone was a little sad but, at the same
time, it was filled with resignation.
That was something to know. There was no further information
forthcoming, however, and as Peter was one of those men who had a great
respect for fourth walls, he left it at that.
They were the last to arrive. Their cab had stalled three times in
Piccadilly and coughed badly through Knightsbridge. Every window of
number One Hundred was alight and as they entered the hall a high
soprano voice was sending piercing vibrations all through the house. A
long oak settle in the hall was covered with strange coats and stranger
hats and there were queer people sitting on the stairs. The drawing-room
was obviously overflowing.
Lola picked her way upstairs, Chalfont following closely. Among these
people who conveyed the impression of having slept in their clothes--Art
is always a little shy of cold water--Lola felt a sense of distress.
Democratic in her ability to make friends with all honest members of the
proletariat, like those in the servants' sitting room in Dover Street,
she felt hopelessly aristocratic when it came to affection with dandruff
on its velvet collar.
The drawing-room, wide and lofty, was one great square of bad taste,
filled, overfilled, with what America aptly calls "junk." Spurious
Italian furniture jostled with imitation English oak. Huge pieces of
fake tapestry hung on the walls side by side with canvases of extremely
self-conscious nudes. Early Victorian whatnots covered with silver
apostle spoons jostled with Tottenham Court Road antiques. All the lamp
shades on the numerous electric lamps were red and heavy, so that the
light crept through. To add to the conglomeration of absurdities the
whole place reeked with burning josh sticks. A woman who dyes her hair a
brilliant yellow invariably burns something on the altar of renewed
optimism. The only thing that rang true in the room was the grand piano
and that was kept in tune.
Sprawling on divans which were ranged around the walls Lola could make
out the forms of men and women of all sizes, ages and nationalities. The
men had more hair than the women. There must have been at least sixty
people present, among whom Peter Chalfont looked like a greyhound and
Lola like an advertisement of somebody's soap. A tremendous woman,
standing with her feet wide apart like a sea captain in a gale, or a
self-conscious golfer on the first tee, was singing Carmen's most
flamboyant song. She was accompanied by a little person of the male
gender whose lank black locks flapped over his eyes. They seemed to be
competing in making the most noise because when the pianist attempted to
overwhelm the voice with all the strength that he possessed, the singer
filled herself with breath, gripped the floor with her well-trained
feet, and sent forth sounds that must have been excessively trying to
the Albert Memorial.
At the end of this shattering event Lady Cheyne bubbled forward and took
Lola's hand. "What do you do, my dear?" she asked, as though she were a
performing dog to be put through her tricks. To which Lola replied,
"Nothing. Nothing at all," with rock-like firmness.
So the exhibitor of human vanities turned persuasively to Peter. "But
you whistle, don't you?" she asked. And Peter with a stiffening spine
replied, "Yes, but only for taxis."
"In that case," said Lady Cheyne, genuinely astonished that neither of
the new arrivals showed any eagerness to jump at her suggestion to
advertise, "find a corner somewhere. A little protegee of mine is going
to dance for us. She is an interpreter of soul moods. So wonderful and
inspiring. You'll love it, I'm sure."
Obeying orders, Peter led Lola into a distant corner, eyed by various
artists who labeled him "Soldier" and dismissed him loftily. The passing
of Lola sent a quiver through them and they were ready for the first
available opportunity to attitudinize about her chair. At a sign from
Lady Cheyne the little pianist commenced to play one of Heller's
"Sleepless Nights" and a very thin girl, wrapped in a small piece of
chiffon, dropped into the middle of the room like a beam of moonlight.
"A spring onion," said Chalfont, in a whisper, "newly plucked from the
warm earth." The burst of applause drowned Lola's flutter of laughter.
The interpretation of soul moods resolved itself, of course, into the
usual series of prancings and high jumps, scuttlings round and roguish
bendings, a final leap into the air and a collapse upon the floor.
And so the evening unwound itself. There were violin solos by men in a
frenzy of false ecstasy, piano solos by women who put that
long-suffering instrument through every conceivable form of torture,
readings of nebulous drivel by the poet Cartridge in a high-pitched
minor-canon voice, and recitations by women without restraint or
humor,--disciples of the new poetry, which Chalfont, quoting from one of
the precocious members of the Bachelors' Club, called "Loose Verse."
And then came supper, a welcome event for which all those sixty people
had been waiting. This was served in the dining room, another large and
eccentric apartment where an embittered man manipulated the punch bowl
and was in great request. As soon as she had seen all her guests fully
occupied with chicken salad and fish croquettes, Lady Cheyne returned to
the deserted drawing-room where she found Chalfont and Lola in deep
conversation. She burst upon them like a hand grenade, crying, "Aren't
they darlings? Every one a genius and all of them hungry. They come to
me like homing pigeons and I do my best to get them placed. Always I
have here one or two of the great impressarios,--agents, you know, and
sometimes I achieve the presence of an actor-manager. But Shakespeare is
out of fashion now and so all my Romeos and Juliets stand a poor chance.
I often sigh for dear Sir Herbert who came here for what he called
'atmosphere and local color.' You must come again, my dear. Peter will
be very glad to bring you, I'm sure, and I shall be delighted to have
you for my week-end parties. I have a place at Whitecross, Bucks. The
garden runs down to the Fallaray place, you know."
From that point on, that big point, Lola ceased to listen.
The whole evening had been filled with amazing sensations. Panic, the
sudden switch to reassurance, the excitement of meeting Chalfont, the
sweeping joy of touching Fallaray's hand and the knowledge that having
broken through the hoop she could now continue to emerge from Dover
Street with her new and eager companion to serve an apprenticeship for
her final role. She had lived a year in an evening. But there was still
another sensation lying in wait for her. The moment had come when she
must return unseen to Castleton Terrace and get back to Dover Street in
good time to reassume the part of lady's maid so that she might not be
caught by the housekeeper and reported,--a chance for which Miss Breezy
was eagerly waiting. And as she sat unconscious of Lady Cheyne's babble
and the buzz of conversation which drifted in from the dining room, she
switched on her brain.
How, in the name of all that was wonderful, was she to give Chalfont the
slip. That was the new problem to solve; because, of course, he would
naturally insist on seeing her home in the ordinary course of events. If
he had thought about it at all, she knew that he must have imagined that
she was staying either at the Ritz, the Carlton or the Berkeley, or that
she was living in one of the smaller houses in Curzon Street, Half Moon
Street or Norfolk Street, Park Lane. The jagged end of panic settled
upon her once more and her hands grew icy. It was utterly essential to
her future plans that Chalfont should remain in complete ignorance of
her identity. He must be used by her during the remainder of the season.
He must bring her again to this house. Lady Cheyne had become an
important factor in her scheme because the garden of her country house
ran down to Chilton Park. It was to Chilton Park that Fallaray loved to
go alone for the week-end and wander about, gaining refreshment for his
tired brain; and always it had seemed to Lola, when she had dared to
look into the future, that this place, standing high up on the ridge of
hills above the vale of Aylesbury, backed by a great beech forest and
landmarked by the white cross that had been cut by the Romans, was the
first milestone on her road to love and to the fulfillment of the dream
which had held her all those years.
The problem of her escape and her Cinderella flight became more and more
pressing. What fib could she invent to tell Chalfont? Without any doubt
he would ask her for permission to call. He would want to know her
telephone number and her address. In his eye already there was the
Simpkins look, the Ernest Treadwell expression and, but for his innate
chivalry and breeding, she knew that he would have given tongue to some
of the things which she could see at the back of his eyes. It was past
eleven. She had heard the clock in the hall strike just now.
She began to rehearse a series of scenes. She saw herself rise and say,
"I must go now. A thousand thanks for all that you have done for me this
evening. Will you please ask Lady Cheyne if I may have a taxi?" She saw
herself standing on the doorstep, the taxi waiting, with Chalfont
assuming that he was to play the cavalier and eventually stand