Claire hated the
place with the bitter hate of one who had read society novels, and
yearned for Grosvenor Square and butlers and a general atmosphere
of soft cushions and pink-shaded lights and maids to do one's
hair. She hated the cheap furniture of the little parlour, the
penetrating contralto of the cook singing hymns in the kitchen,
and the ubiquitousness of her small brother. He was only ten, and
small for his age, yet he appeared to have the power of being in
two rooms at the same time while making a nerve-racking noise in
another.
It was Percy who greeted her to-day as she entered the flat.
'Halloa, Claire! I say, Claire, there's a letter for you. It came
by the second post. I say, Claire, it's got an American stamp on
it. Can I have it, Claire? I haven't got one in my collection.'
His sister regarded him broodingly. 'For goodness' sake don't
bellow like that!' she said. 'Of course, you can have the stamp. I
don't want it. Where is the letter?'
Claire took the envelope from him, extracted the letter, and
handed back the envelope. Percy vanished into the dining-room with
a shattering squeal of pleasure.
A voice spoke from behind a half-opened door--
'Is that you, Claire?'
'Yes, mother; I've come back to pack. They want me to go to
Southampton to-night to take up Claudia Winslow's part.
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