No, no--it wasn't
good enough!--or at any rate not good enough as long as there was a hope
of anything better. Even so, it was comfortable to know that Harold
Tremaine would still be there, a second string to her bow, in six months'
or a year's time.
It was of all this that she thought, a little despondently, as she
settled herself down in the easy chair close to the little wood fire.
In a few moments her supper would be brought in by her pleasant-faced,
rosy-cheeked parlourmaid. Enid Crofton was dainty and particular as to
her food. The bad cooking she had had to endure during those miserable
months she had spent in Essex, after her husband had been demobilised,
had proved a very real addition to her other troubles.
She had brought a nice sweetbread with her from London yesterday, and she
was now looking forward to having it for her supper.
All at once there came a ring at the front door, and a feeling of keen,
angry annoyance shot through her. Of course it was Jack--Jack again! He
would ask tiresome, inconvenient questions about the mythical woman
friend, the almost sister, for whom she had required the money, and she
would have to make up tiresome, inconvenient lies.
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