CHAPTER SIX
Number 57 Golden Square was dark when Joyselle's cab stopped in front of
it, and he, after tenderly depositing his violin-case under the little
portico, assisted Brigit to alight. "They are, of course, in the
kitchen," he remarked as he paid the cabby. "Come, _ma belle_."
She followed him as if she were in a dream, watching him open the door
with a latchkey, after a frantic search for that object in all his
pockets, tiptoeing after him as, a finger to his lips, a delighted,
boyish smile crinkling his eyelids, he led her down the narrow,
oilclothed passage.
"Why are they in the kitchen?" she asked, as excited as he.
"It is nearly eight; she is busy with supper."
Even in the dim light of the single gas burner Brigit caught at once the
predominating note of the house: its intense and wonderful cleanliness.
The walls, painted white, were snowy, the chequered oilcloth under her
feet as spotless as if it had that moment come from the shop, and the
slender handrail of the steep staircase glanced with polish, drawing an
arrow of light through the dusk.
Putting his violin-case on the table, Joyselle took off his hat and with
some difficulty pulled his arms out of his greatcoat sleeves.
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