y, some rare prints, my choice
collection of mezzotints, a picture or two of value--one a Lancret, a
very dear possession. And there were my books--once I had a passion
for rare bindings. Every thing had to me a personal significance, and I
hated the idea of surrender more than I dared to confess even to myself.
But I said to Lola:

"Vanity of vanities! All things expensive are vanity!"

Her eyes glistened and she slipped her arm through mine and patted the
back of my hand.

"If you talk like that I shall cry and make a fool of myself," she said
in a broken manner.

It is not so much the thing that is done or the thing that is said that
matters, but the way of doing or saying it. In the commonplace pat on
the hand, in the break in the commonplace words there was something that
went straight to my heart. I squeezed her arm and whispered:

"Thank you, dear."

This sympathy so sure and yet so delicately conveyed was mine for the
trouble of mounting the stairs that led to her drawing-room in Cadogan
Gardens. She seemed to be watching my heart the whole time, so that
without my asking, without my knowledge even, she could touch each sore
spot as it appeared, with the healing finger. For herself she made
no claims, and because she did not in any way declare herself to be
unhappy, I, after the manner of men, took her happiness for granted. For
lives there a man who does not believe that an uncomplaining woman has
nothing to complain of? It is his masculine prerogative of density.
Besides, does not he himself when hurt bellow like a bull? Why,
he argues, should not wounded woman do the same? So, when I wanted
companionship, I used to sit in the familiar room and make Adolphus, the
Chow dog, shoulder arms with the poker, and gossip restfully with Lola,
who sprawled in her old languorous, loose-limbed way among the cushions
of her easy chair. Gradually my habitual reserve melted from me, and
at last I gave her my whole confidence, telling her of my disastrous
pursuit of eumoiriety, of Eleanor Faversham, of the attitude of Society,
in fact, of most of what I have set down in the preceding pages. She was
greatly interested in everything, especially in Eleanor Faversham. She
wanted to know the colour of her eyes and hair and how she dressed.
Women are odd creatures.

The weeks passed.

Besides ministering to my dilapidated spirit, Lola found occupation in
looking after the cattery of Anastasius Papadopoulos, which the litt