Do not think of it. We shall be happy,
Brigitte, for you are my woman and I am your man. And the future--oh,
never mind the future, my love, my love!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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.
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