A woman of
painted middle age in a _descente de lit_ that in its opulence
matched the hangings and furniture of the room, had been reclining
on a sofa, drinking chocolate and reading a newspaper. She rose
shakily to her feet, when the door closed behind Vivie, tottered
forward to meet her, and exclaimed rather theatrically "My
_daughter_ ... come back to me ... after all these years!" (a few
tears ran down the rouged cheeks).
"Steady on, mother," said Vivie, propping her up, and feeling oh! so
clean and pure and fresh and wholesome by contrast with this
worn-out woman of pleasure. "Lie down again on your sofa, go on with
your _petit dejeuner_--which is surely rather late? There were signs
and appetizing smells of the larger meal being imminent as I passed
through the hotel. Now just lie down until you want to dress--if you
like, I'll help you dress" (swallowing hard to choke down a little
shudder of repulsion). "I'm not in any hurry. I've come to Brussels
to go into matters thoroughly. For the present, I am staying at the
Hotel Grimaud."
Mrs. Warren was convulsively sobbing and ruining the complexion she
had just made up, before she changed out of her _descente de lit_:
"Why not stop here, dearie? Don't laugh! There's _lots_ that do and
never suspect for one minute it ain't like any other hotel; though
from all I see and hear, _all_ hotels are pretty much the same
now-a-days, whether they're called by my name or not.
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