Here, there was a
pleasant, modest-looking tea-shop with the name of Walcker over the
front, and embedded in the plate glass were the words "Tea Rooms."
These of course dated from long before the war, when the best
Chinese tea was only four francs the demi-kilo and the fashion for
afternoon tea had become established in Brussels. Vivie and her
mother had often entered Walcker's shop in happier days for a cup of
tea and delicious forms of home-made pastry. Besides the cakes,
which in pre-war times were of an excellence rarely equalled, they
had been drawn to the pleasant-looking serving woman. She was so
English in appearance, though she only spoke French and Flemish.
Behind the shop was a cosy little room where the more intimate
clients were served with tea; a room with a look-out into a little
square of garden. Thither Mrs. Warren was carried or supported. She
regained consciousness slightly as she was placed on a chair,
opened her eyes, and said "Thank you, my dears." Then her head fell
over to one side and she was dead--seemingly....
The _agent de police_ went away to fetch a doctor and to disperse
the crowd of _ketjes_[1] and loafers which had transferred itself
from the hotel to the tea-shop. The shop woman, who was one of those
angels of kindness that turn up unexpectedly in the paths of unhappy
people, called in a stout serving wench from the kitchen, and the
three of them carried Mrs.
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