not Eleanor Faversham is the
woman sent down by Heaven to be my mate than I realise the same old
dilemma--Lola on one horn and Eleanor replaced on the other by Pride
and Honour and all sorts of capital-lettered considerations. Life is
the very Deuce," said I, with a wry appreciation of the subtlety of
language.

Why did Lola say: "Your Eleanor Faversham?"

I had enough to think over for the rest of the evening. But I slept
peacefully. Light loves had come and gone in the days past; but now for
the first time love that was not light had come into my life.

CHAPTER XXI

"The Lord will find a way out of the dilemma," said I confidently to
myself as I neared Cadogan Gardens two days after the revelatory drive.
"Lola is in love with me and I am in love with Lola, and there is
nothing to keep us apart but my pride over a matter of a few
ha'-pence." I felt peculiarly jaunty. I had just posted to Finch the
last of the articles I had agreed to write for his reactionary review,
and only a couple of articles for another journal remained to be written
in order to complete my literary engagements. Soon I should be out of
the House of Bondage in which I had been a slave, at first willingly and
now rebelliously, from my cradle. The great wide world with its infinite
opportunities for development received my liberated spirit. I had broken
the shackles of caste. I had thrown off the perfumed garments of
epicureanism, the vesture of my servitude. My emotions, once stifled in
the enervating atmosphere, now awake fresh and strong in the free air. I
was elemental--the man wanting the woman; and I was happy because I knew
I was going to get her. Such must be the state of being of a dragonfly
on a sunny day. And--shall I confess it?--I had obeyed the dragon-fly's
instinct and attired myself in the most resplendent raiment in my
wardrobe. My morning coat was still irreproachable, my patent leather
boots still gleamed, and having had some business in Piccadilly I had
stepped into my hatter's and emerged with my silk hat newly ironed. I
positively strutted along the pavement.

For two days I had not seen her or heard from her or written to her. I
had scrupulously respected her wishes, foolish though they were. Now I
was on my way to convince her that my love was not a moment's surge of
the blood on a spring afternoon. I would take her into my arms at once,
after the way of men, and she, after the way of women, would yield
adorably. I h