“I just know I would have had some premonition of it! I would have been conscious of it if anything had been happening to Judy,” which showed that Kent Brown was his mother’s own son. He was not going to mourn the loss of a loved one until he was sure the loved one was gone, and he had her own unfailing faith that something could not have happened to one he cared for without his being aware of it.
“Sure you would!” declared Jim, not at all sure but relieved that his friend was taking that view of the matter.
“I know something that will be a positive proof whether she was here or not last night.” Kent walked firmly to the bath room, which was behind the bed rooms and out of the path of the bomb. He threw open the door and looked eagerly on the little glass shelf for a tooth brush.
“Not a sign of one. I know and you know that if Judy had been here last night her tooth brush would have been here, too. I am sure now! Come on, and let’s look somewhere else.”
Kent went out with Judy’s serge dress over his arm. The concierge looked sadly after him: “Her dress is all he has to cherish now. The poor young man! I used to see he was in love with her when Mrs. Brune was in the Bents’ studio and her son occupied the one to the right with Mr. Kinsella. Oh, la la! Mais la vie est amer!”
The crowd dispersed, since there was nothing more to see and the hour for déjeuner a la fourchette was approaching. The concierge went off to visit her daughter who was ill. The studios were all empty now and her duties were light. Her husband was to see that no one entered the court to carry off the Bents’ things, which were exposed pitifully to the gaze of the public until the authorities could do something. He, good man, waited a little while and then made his way to a neighbouring brasserie to get his tumbler of absinthe, and one tumbler led to another and forgetfulness followed soon, and the Bents’ studio properties were but dreams to his befuddled brain.
Judy had spent a busy morning. Marie had gone to carry tarts to “the regiment” and all of the waiting in the shop fell on her. She did it gladly, thankful that she was so busy she could not think. She measured soup and weighed spinach and potato salad and wrapped up tarts until her back ached. Finally Mère Tricot came in from the baking of more tarts.
“My child, go out for a while. You need the air. I am here now to feed these gourmands.”
“All right, Mother! I want to get my dress at the studio. Marie says she will dye it for me.”
“Certainly! Certainly! We can save many a sou by doing it ourselves. Go, child!”