Lola Brandt, too, has heard the news, Dale in Berlin, and the London newspapers being her informants.  Tears stood in her eyes when I called to learn her decision.  Why had I not told her I was so ill?  Why had I let her worry me with her silly troubles?  Why had I not consulted her friend, Sir Joshua Oldfield?  She filled up my chair with cushions (which, like most men, I find stuffy and comfortless), and if I had given her the slightest encouragement, would have stuck my feet in hot mustard and water.  Why had I come out on such a dreadful day?  It was indeed a detestable day of raw fog.  She pulled the curtains close, and, insisting upon my remaining among my cushions, piled the grate with coal half-way up the chimney.  Would I like some eucalyptus?

“My dear Madame Brandt,” I cried, “my bronchial tubes and lungs are as strong as a hippopotamus’s.”

I wish every one would not conclude that I was going off in a rapid decline.

Lola Brandt prowled about me in a wistful, mothering way, showing me a fresh side of her nature.  She is as domesticated as Penelope.

“You’re fond of cooking, aren’t you?” I asked suddenly.

She laughed.  “I adore it.  How do you know?”

“I guessed,” said I.

“I’m what the French call a vraie bourgeoise.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said I.

“Are you?  I thought your class hated the bourgeoisie.”

“The bourgeoisie,” I said, “is the nation’s granary of the virtues.  But for God’s sake, don’t tell any one that I said so!”

“Why?” she asked.

“If it found its way into print it would ruin my reputation for epigram.”

She drew a step or two towards me in her slow rhythmic way, and smiled.

“When you say or do a beautiful thing you always try to bite off its tail.”

Then she turned and drew some needlework—­plain sewing I believe they call it—­from beneath the Union Jack cushion and sat down.

“I’ll make a confession,” she said.  “Until now I’ve stuffed away my work when I heard you coming.  I didn’t think it genteel.  What do you think?”

I scanned the shapeless mass of linen or tulle or whatever it was on her lap.

“I don’t know whether it’s genteel,” I remarked, “but at present it looks like nothing on God’s earth.”

My masculine ignorance of such mysteries made her laugh.  She is readily moved to mild mirth, which makes her an easy companion.  Besides, little jokes are made to be laughed at, and I like women who laugh at them.  There was a brief silence.  I smoked and made Adolphus stand up on his hind legs and balance sugar on his nose.  His mistress sewed.  Presently she said, without looking up from her work: 

“I’ve made up my mind.”

I rose from my cushioned seat, into which Adolphus, evidently thinking me a fool, immediately snuggled himself, and I stood facing her with my back to the fire.