The atmosphere of Grass Valley could scarcely be described as tranquil. Its surface was always being ruffled; and it was not long before Lola was again embroiled in a collision with one of her neighbours. This time she had a passage at arms with a Methodist minister in the camp, the Rev. Mr. Wilson, who, with a sad lack of Christian charity, informed his flock that this new member among them was "a feminine devil devoid of shame, and that the 'Spider Dance' in her repertoire was an outrage." There were limits to clerical criticism. This was clearly one of them. As she could not take her whip to a clergyman, she took herself. "Resolved to teach the Rev. Wilson a lesson, she called on him in her dancing dress, while he was conducting a confirmation class."
"Without," says a member of the gathering, "any preliminaries beyond saying 'Good afternoon,' she proceeded to execute the dance before the astonished gaze of the company. Then turning to the minister, she said, 'The next time you think fit to make me and this dance a subject for a pulpit discourse, perhaps you will know better what you are talking about.' She then took her departure, before the reverend gentleman could sufficiently collect his senses to say or do anything."
But, notwithstanding these breaks in its monotony, Lola felt that she was not really adapted to the routine of Grass Valley. Once more, the theatre called her. Answering the call, she went back to it. But on the return journey she did not take Patrick Hull. She also shed the name he had given her, and resumed that of Countess of Landsfeld.
"It looks better on the bills," she said, when she discussed plans for a prospective tour.
The Grass Valley Telegraph gave her a good "send off" in a fulsome column; and the miners presented her with a "farewell gift" in the form of a nugget. "Rough, like ourselves," said their spokesman, "but the genuine article."