Creme de Menthe

The waiter appeared. Gerald glanced at the glasses of the other two.
Birkin was drinking something green, Miss Darrington had a small
liqueur glass that was empty save for a tiny drop.

'Won't you have some more--?' 'Brandy,' she said, sipping her last drop and putting down the glass.
The waiter disappeared.

'No,' she said to Birkin. 'He doesn't know I'm back. He'll be terrified
when he sees me here.' She spoke her r's like w's, lisping with a slightly babyish
pronunciation which was at once affected and true to her character. Her
voice was dull and toneless.

'Where is he then?' asked Birkin.

'He's doing a private show at Lady Snellgrove's,' said the girl.
'Warens is there too.' There was a pause.

'Well, then,' said Birkin, in a dispassionate protective manner, 'what
do you intend to do?' The girl paused sullenly. She hated the question.

'I don't intend to do anything,' she replied. 'I shall look for some
sittings tomorrow.' 'Who shall you go to?' asked Birkin.

'I shall go to Bentley's first. But I believe he's angwy with me for
running away.' 'That is from the Madonna?' 'Yes. And then if he doesn't want me, I know I can get work with
Carmarthen.' 'Carmarthen?' 'Lord Carmarthen--he does photographs.' 'Chiffon and shoulders--' 'Yes. But he's awfully decent.' There was a pause.