"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.
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