I thought it such an accurate epitaph. He was a jolly decent chap. I turned away because my eyes were so full of tears.
If he had recovered and I had married him I could never, never have made him happy. I should have been one of those wives who suddenly look at their husbands with vacant eyes, and have thoughts they cannot tell when they are asked—you see, Cheneston Cromer is with me for keeps, the memory of him will never go, and I know that often I should wander away from Walter with Cheneston, and be sorry to come back, and Walter was too great a dear to treat like that, a very gallant and honest English gentleman.
Regina Merolovitch has found me a "job" at twenty-five shillings a week. She says it is only temporary, and soon I shall find something better; but I don't know. I am only "honest and willing," and the world seems overcrowded with honesty and willingness unadorned.
I "do anything" for Madame Cherry, who has a little cherry-coloured shop with grey fittings and purple hangings in the West End. Sometimes I am in the showroom, sometimes I make tea for the girls, sometimes I pick pins off the showroom floor, sometimes I "match" things at the big London stores, sometimes I take things home to customers.
I marvel at the prices people pay for clothes. The people who fluff in and say, "I must have some little cheap thing, madame," seem to pay most and buy most.
Madame made a wonderful "little cheap thing" the other day—black tulle over blue tulle, and all of it edged with blue beetles' wings, and blue tissue round the waist to match.
It was done in a violent hurry because "he" was coming home on leave; "he" was staying at the Savoy with her for a few days, and then they were going down to their country seat when he had seen about his kit.
She paid for the girl's "hurry."
Madame never breaks her promises.
She had promised it by seven, and I was to deliver it at the Savoy.