"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.
"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.