Mrs. Braiding came in. G.J. had known it was she by the caressing
quality of the knock. Mrs. Braiding was his cook and the wife of his
"man". It was not her place to come in, but occasionally, because
something had happened to Braiding, she did come in. She drew the
curtains apart, and the day of Vigo Street, pale, dirty, morose,
feebly and perfunctorily took possession of the bedroom. Mrs.
Braiding, having drawn the curtains, returned to the door and from the
doorway said:

"Breakfast is practically ready, sir."

G.J. perceived that this was one of her brave, resigned mornings.
Since August she had borne the entire weight of the war on her back,
and sometimes the burden would overpower her, but never quite. G.J.
switched on the light, arose from his bed, assumed his dressing-gown,
and, gazing with accustomed pleasure round the bedroom, saw that it
was perfect.

He had furnished his flat in the Regency style of the first decade
of the nineteenth century, as matured by George Smith, "upholder
extraordinary to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales". The Pavilion
at Brighton had given the original idea to G.J., who saw in it the
solution of the problem of combining the somewhat massive dignity
suitable to a bachelor of middling age with the bright, unconquerable
colours which the eternal twilight of London demands.

His dome bed was yellow as to its upper works, with crimson valances
above and yellow valances below. The yellow-lined crimson curtains (of
course never closed) had green cords and tassels, and the counterpane
was yellow. This bed was a modest sample of the careful and