ll her fascination and charm--a picture of Lola
such as I had not seen since my emergence from the Valley--a picture of
Lola, generous, tender, wistful, strong, yielding, fragrant, lovable,
desirable, amorous--a picture of Lola which I could not put before this
other woman equally brave and straight, who looked at me composedly out
of her calm, blue eyes.

My description resolved itself into a loutish catalogue.

"It is not painful to you to talk of her, Simon?"

"Not at all. There are not many great-hearted women going about. It is
my privilege to know two."

"Am I the other?"

"Who else?"

"I'm glad you have the courage to class Madame Brandt and myself
together."

"Why?" I asked.

"It proves beyond a doubt that you are honest with me. Now tell me
about a few externals--things that don't matter--but help one to form an
impression. Is she educated?"

"From books, no; from observation, yes."

"Her manners?"

"Observation had educated them."

"Accent?"

"She is sufficiently polyglot to have none."

"She dresses and talks and behaves generally like a lady?"

"She does," said I.

"In what way then does she differ from the women of our class?"

"She is less schooled, less reticent, franker, more natural. What is on
her tongue to say, she says."

"Temper?"

"I have never heard her say an angry word to or of a human creature. She
has queer delicacies of feeling. For instance----"

I told her of Anastasius Papadopoulos's tawdry, gimcrack presents which
Lola has suffered to remain in her drawing-room so as not to hurt the
poor little wretch.

"That's very touching. Where does she live?"

"She has a flat in Cadogan Gardens."

"Is she in London now?"

"Yes."

"I should like very much to know her," she said calmly.

I vow and declare again that the more straightforward and open-eyed, the
less subtle, temperamental, and neurotic are women, the more are they
baffling. I had wondered for some time whither the catechism tended,
and now, with a sudden jerk, it stopped short at this most unexpected
terminus. It was startling. I rose and mechanically placed my empty
tea-cup on the tray by her side.

"The wish, my dear Eleanor," said I, quite formally, "does great credit
to your heart."

There was a short pause, marking an automatic close of the subject.
Deeply as I admired both women, I shrank from the idea of their meeting.
It seemed curiously indelicate, in view both of my former engagement
to E