love of gambling, and hope that the woman he loved should remain free a
little longer.

"It is--tails."

Theo walked into the ballroom without a word, and Brigit found herself
close in his father's arms for a wild moment. "We have won, _mon adoree,
mon adoree_," he murmured. "Thank God!"

She drew away, trying to remember prudence.

"Yes. Then--this summer is ours. And in the autumn----"

"It is not even summer yet. 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.
"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.