Lola had become a habit.

The chair I was sitting in was _my_ chair.

Adolphus was _my_ dog.
I hated the idea of Dale making him stand up and do sentry with the fire shovel, while Lola sprawled gracefully on the hearthrug.

On the other hand the thought of remaining in London and sharing with my young friend the privilege of her society was intolerable.
I smoked, and, watching her bosom rise and fall as she leaned forward with one arm on the mantelpiece, argued it out with myself, and came to the paradoxical conclusion that I could pack her off without a pang to Kamtchatka and the embraces of her unknown husband, but could not hand her over to Dale without feelings of the deepest repugnance.

A pretty position to find myself in.