Cromwell Mansions are a depressing pile of buildings not far from the
Kensington High Street; they have lifts, uniformed hall-porters, house
telephones and other modern inconveniences, and a restaurant.
The restaurant is, of course, the Mansions being inhabited chiefly by
women, very bad indeed, but it obviates the necessity of cooks and
kitchens in the, for the most part, diminutive flats into which the
place is divided.
One day early in August Brigit Mead sat in the restaurant at a small
table near an open window through which she caught an invigorating view
of a brick court in the middle of which a woman was washing a cabbage at
a pump.
It was a very warm day and the butter, more liquid than solid, seemed to
be the last of a huge bundle of straws the weight of which threatened to
break the girl's back.
That the cold beef was hard and tasteless was a detail to be borne with,
but the butter seemed particularly insulting as it melted before her
eyes.
"Going to thunder, I believe," observed a wan girl at the next table.
"It _would_, of course, as I have tickets for Ranelagh!"
"Of course," agreed Brigit, absently.
She hated being so late in town, but the Lenskys, to whom she had been
going, had wired to put her off, as Pammy had come down with measles.
And the wire having come only that morning, she had as yet made no other
plan for the rest of the month.
"Give me some cream, please," she said to the waiter, "without too much
boracic acid powder in it."
There was no irony in her remark and the waiter accepted it in good
faith. "It's the 'eat, my lady," he explained serenely. "It all goes
sour if they don't put something in it."
Brigit ate a piece of fruit tart, a bit of cheese, and rose languidly.
"I see your mother has gone to the country, Lady Brigit," said a girl
near the door, as she passed.
"Yes. She always goes on the 28th of July."
"I saw it in some paper. Are you staying on long?"
The story of her leaving her mother's house was, Brigit knew, common
property, but this was the first time anyone had ventured to broach the
matter to her.
"I suppose," went on the unlucky questioner, "that you will soon be
joining her?"
"Do you?" asked Brigit.
"Do I what?"
"Suppose so?" And Miss M'Caw was alone, staring after the tall figure in
the plain white frock, that for all its plainness looked so out of place
in Cromwell Mansions.
Unlocking her door, Brigit went into her sitting-room and lit a
cigarette. She had taken the flat from a friend who had been sent abroad
by her doctor, and the whole place was absurdly unsuited to its present
owner.
Maidie Conyers was blonde and small, so the room was pale blue and
"cosy." There were embroidered pillows on the buttony Chesterfield, lace
shades to the electric lights, and be-rosebudded liberty silk curtains.
Brigit hated the house, but it was cheap, and she had little money.
With a grunt of furious distaste she sat down in a satin chair, and
leaning back began to smoke. The tables in the room were very bare, for
the chief ornaments had been photographs--in very elaborate frames--of
Maidie Conyers' friends, and Brigit, finding that she loathed Maidie
Conyers' friends, had banished them one and all.
"Loathsome room," the girl said aloud, lighting a fresh cigarette,
"disgusting curtains."
What she in reality felt mostly, though she did not know it, was the
lack of room in the flat. Used all her life to the large rooms of
Kingsmead, she felt, now that the unusual heat had come, cramped and
restless.
It maddened her to have to make plans. Where should she go? How like
that little wretch Pammy to go and have measles now.
She would go to Golden Square as soon as it got a little cooler and make
Victor play to her. They might go for a drive later. Or she might make
Théo take her for a walk in the park. Suddenly she heard a slight
scratching noise in the entry, and rose. The porter, to save himself
trouble, was letting some visitor in unannounced. She would murder that
porter.
But when she saw the visitor she forgot the guilty official.
"Gerald!"
"Yes, Brigit. Do--do you mind?"
"I--yes, I mind, of course I do. Why have you come?"
Carron, who was very smartly dressed and who looked wretchedly ill, sank
into a chair.
"It is nearly four months ago," he murmured. "I--I hoped you would have
forgiven me."
"Well, I haven't. So please go."
Her ill-humour, accumulating ever since the receipt of the wire from the
Lenskys, seemed about to burst. She looked exceedingly angry, and the
poor wretch in the chair before her trembled as he looked at her.
"D--don't be so hard on me, Bicky."
"Don't call me Bicky. And please go. I don't want to be rude, but I
shall lose my temper if you don't."
Carron's pinched face quivered. "I--I am very ill Brigit," he said in a
hurried, deprecating way. "I--I am not sleeping at all, my nerves
are--rotten. And I thought I'd die if I couldn't see you. Don't be any
harder on me than--than necessary."
She sat down on the arm of a chair, and looked at him closely.
"You do look ill--very ill. And you look--I say, Gerald, are you taking
anything?"
He gave a shrill, cackling laugh. "Taking anything. No. You mean
morphine or something of that kind? _Pas si bête_, my dear. Oh, no, I
have always had a perfect horror of anything like that. W--why?"
"Because--I think you _are_," she returned coolly. "Show me your left
arm, Gerald."
"No, no, you are mad, my dear,--I assure you I don't. I give you my word
of honour----"
She came to him, and taking his arm in her strong hands pushed up his
sleeves and studied his emaciated arm for a few seconds in silence.
"I thought as much," she commented, as he almost whimpered in his
helpless annoyance.
"You are so rough, Brigit. Tony always says you are so rough."
"Yes, I am. Well--I am sorry for you, Gerald. When did you begin?"
"Oh--long ago. But--I seem to need more of late."
"Took it at first to make you sleep, I suppose?"
"Yes. And then--well you see, I like it. And it's nobody's business," he
finished defiantly.
"That's true. Would you like some tea?"
"Oh, yes, Brigit. You _are_ kind. It is good of you to forgive me."
"I haven't forgiven you," she retorted, going to the tea table, "but I
am sorry for you. Where have you been of late?"
"Oh, all about, as usual. I came up from Morecambe yesterday. Rotten
party. Have you seen your mother?"