She went upstairs as soon as she could to put on the silver frock. There had been no time to change before dinner. Fallaray had kissed her so often that she had been late. She was joined immediately by Lady, Cheyne, who was anxious. She had seen something in Lola’s eyes.
“What is it, my dear?” she asked. “I’m worried about you.”
And Lola went to her, as to a mother, and shut her eyes and gave a little cry that seemed to come from her soul.
“There’s something wrong!—Has he hurt you? Tell me.”
And Lola said, “Oh, no. He would never hurt me, never. He loves me. But I may be hurting him, and that’s so very much worse.”
“I don’t understand. You mean—his reputation? But what if you are? We’re all too precious careful to guard the reputations of our politicians, to help them along in their petty careers.”
“But he isn’t a politician, and he isn’t working for a career.” She drew away sharply. No one must have a word against Fallaray.
“Well, what is it then? I want you to be happy. I want this to be a Great Romance. And, good Heavens, my darling, it’s only three days old.”
Lola spoke through tears. Yes, it was only three days old. “He may love me too much,” she said. “I may become more important than his work.”
Lady Cheyne’s anxiety left her, like smoke. And she gave a laugh and drew what she called that old-fashioned child into her arms again. “My dear,” she said, “don’t let _that_ distress you. Make yourself more important than his work. Encourage him to love you more than himself. He’ll be different from most men if he is capable of that! But perhaps happiness is something new in his life, and I shouldn’t wonder, with Lady Feo for a wife.”
It never occurred to Lola to ask her friend how she had discovered the secret. She listened eagerly to her sophistries, trying to persuade herself that they were true.
“Get him to take you away. There are beautiful places to go to, and he never will be missed. There’ll be a paragraph,—‘ill-health causes the resignation of Mr. Fallaray’; the clubs will talk, but the people will believe the papers, and presently Lady Feo will sue for divorce, desertion. A nice thing,—she being the deserter! And you and he,—what do you care? Is happiness so cheap that you can throw it away, either of you? If he loves you, _that’s_ his career, and a very much better one than leading parties and making empty promises and becoming Prime Minister. If he loves you well enough to sacrifice all that, for the sake of womanhood see that he does it, and you will build a bigger statue for him than any that he could win.”