“No. You look bonnier than ever. I’m on my own again now. Thompson has gone to Paris. He says the only painters are there. I think he’s going mad, because he paints nothing but stripes and triangles. And he was such a dear. . . . I’m feeling awfully lonely because Tilly has gone to Canada. Samuelson gave her the chuck and she went out to her cousin in Canada, who had always been wanting to marry her. . . . Are you still down in Whitechapel? I do hate going to see you there. Why don’t you move up to the West End? I could come and live with you then, for I do hate being at a loose end.”
She was adorably pretty, dark, with eyes like damsons, lovely red lips, touched up with carmine, and a soft white neck that trembled as she spoke like the breast of a singing bird.
“Oh! who do you think I saw the other day? Hetty Finch! She has a flat and a motor-car, but I don’t believe she is married.” She looked suddenly solemn as she added: “The baby’s dead.” Then she rattled on: “Isn’t she lucky? But she’s an awful snob. Would hardly speak to me!”
“She’s a beast of a woman.”
“What do you think of this place? I suppose if the swells come it’ll be a success, but they do spoil it.”
“Yes,” said Mendel. “They spoil everything. When do they begin to dance?”
“They’ve nearly finished the programme. They have to have a programme to make people eat and drink.”
“Let’s have some champagne.”
He called the waiter and ordered a bottle.
“Been selling lately?”