"Hello, Tommy."

"Hello, Bicky."

Brigit Mead wore a short blue skirt, brown shoes, a pink wash-silk
blouse made like a man's shirt, and a green felt hat that obviously
belonged to someone else. She was dressed like thousands of English
girls, and she looked as though the blood in her might be any in the
world but English. Hers was an enigmatic, narrow, high-bred face,
crowned by masses of dry black hair, and distinguished from any other
face most people had ever seen by the curved line of her little nose and
the colourless darkness of her very long, half-closed, heavily lashed
eyes. She looked sulky, disagreeable, and secretive, but she was
strangely and undeniably beautiful. Her long, thin-lipped mouth was too
close shut, but it was of an exquisite satin texture, scarlet in colour,
and when she said "Hello, Tommy," it melted into the most enchanting and
indescribable curves, showing just a glimpse of pointed white teeth.

Kingsmead studied her gravely for a moment.

"Been crying?"

"Yes."

"That bill?"

"Yes, that bill, you horrid little boy. There's a long worm in your
hair."