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"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.
What object could she have in meeting him? "I want to judge for myself," she replied. "Judge what? Surely not whether he is eligible as a husband!" "Yes," she said. "But, my dear Lola," I cried, "the notion is as crazy as any of Anastasius Papadopoulos's. Of course, as soon as he learns that you're a rich woman, he'll want to live with you, and use your money for his gaming-hell."
She half rose in her chair and regarded me with wide-blue eyes. "I've driven her out of the country?" "Yes; with her maid and her belongings and Anastasius Papadopoulos's troupe of performing cats, and Anastasius Papadopoulos's late pupil and assistant Quast. She has given up her comfortable home in London and now proposes to be a wanderer among the music-halls of Europe."
Now, as it is no part of dealing unto oneself a happy life and portion to damp a fellow creature's spirits, I responded with commendable gaiety. I own that the drive to Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos's cattery in Rosebery Avenue, Clerkenwell, was distinctly enjoyable.
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