Honoria had
said as he departed "Do try to run up against Vivie somewhere abroad
and tell her I shan't be happy till she returns and takes up her
abode among us once more. 'Army' is _longing_ to know her." ('Army'
didn't look it.) "Now pettums! Wave handikins to Uncle David. He's
goin' broadies. 'Army' dear, would you ask them to whistle for a
taxi? I know David doesn't want to walk all the way back to the
Temple in those lovely button boots."
Praed told him all he wanted to know about the localities of the
Warren Private Hotels; most of all, that at which Vivie's mother
resided in the Rue Royale, Brussels.
So at this establishment a well but plainly dressed English lady,
scarcely looking her age (thirty-four) turned up one morning, and
sent in a card to the lady-proprietress, Mme. Varennes. This card
was closely scanned by a heavy-featured Flemish girl who took it
upstairs to an _appartement_ on the first floor. She read:
_Miss Vivien Warren_
and vaguely noted the resemblance of the two names Varennes and
Warren, and the fact that the establishment in which she earned a
lucrative wage was one of the "Warren" Hotels.
With very short delay, Vivie was invited to ascend in a lift to the
first floor and was shown in to a gorgeously furnished bedroom
which, through an open door, gave a glimpse of an attractive boudoir
or sitting-room beyond, and beyond that again the plane trees of a
great boulevard breaking into delicate green leaf.
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