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.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226