Read Online The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock - Free Book Online Page A

entranceway to open the car doors.
    â€œGood day, Miss Greville . . . Miss Foxe,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “Shall I have a boy park your motorcar, Miss Foxe?”
    â€œNot today, thank you. I’m not staying.”
    Alexandra sprang from the car like a fluffy Persian cat. “Don’t you dare pick me up before three. I don’t want you to see my gowns until they’re free of basting stitches. Promise?”
    â€œPromise,” Lydia said flatly. After the doorman closed the car door, she put the Benz into gear and roared off in the direction of Oxford Street.
    Foxe House was one of the largest, most modern office buildings in England. It had been designed by an American architect and completed in spring 1912 to a flurry of controversy. Letters had poured in to the Times , the bulk of them decrying the erection of such a building within viewing distance of Nash’s pristine Regent Street façades. But after a few months, Londoners began to grow used to, and then fond of, the oblong multistory limestone-faced building near Oxford Circus. It had long been Archie Foxe’s dream to have all the varied departments of his vast enterprise under one roof instead of scattered hither and yon about the city. The efficiency of what Archie Foxe called “the Yank method” had been more than proved during the two years of the building’s occupancy, and several of the larger British corporations were constructing massive office buildings of their own. The skyline of London was beginning to change, and that was just what Archie Foxe liked to see.
    Lydia turned into the entranceway of the subterranean garage, where a boy in a smart blue uniform took the car from her. She removed her linen motoring coat and left it on the seat, then walked to a lift, which whisked her upward. The lift stopped at several floors and people got in and out—secretaries, office boys, mail clerks, men and women from advertising, marketing, the White Manor division, the Foxe’s Fancy division, the legal and real-property departments. Lydia was instantly recognized by most of them and politely wished a good day, but she knew only one of her fellow passengers, a tall ruddy-faced man named Swinton, who was chief of the advertising department. He had gotten on at the first floor, a pipe jutting from his mouth and a large portfolio of drawings under his arm.
    â€œHallo, Lydia,” Swinton said cheerily. “Come to take the guv’nor to lunch?”
    It was a little joke they shared. Archie Foxe had never been known to have lunch. Once, long ago, Lydia had insisted that he join her at lunch at the Savoy Grill and Archie had sent Swinton in his stead.
    â€œNo,” she said with a smile. “Just come to pay my respects.”
    â€œHe’s busy as a beaver. We’re opening the new place at Charing Cross next week. Like to take a look-see at these?” He opened the portfolio to reveal half a dozen watercolors, rough sketches for advertising posters.
    â€œThey’re very good.”
    â€œThank you,” Swinton said. “We’re attracting some first-rate artists these days. The Slade School has finally stopped turning its nose up at us and we’re getting some damn brilliant chaps from there . . . women, too. Any particular one strike you?”
    â€œThat night scene is very eye-catching.”
    Swinton slipped it from the portfolio and held it up. It was an impression of a London street on a rainy night, great blobs of brilliant color shimmering in reflection on the wet pavement. People, heads bent against the wind-driven downpour, were scurrying shadows. Amid the gloom rose a brightly lit two-story building with the words White Manor illuminated across the front of it. At the bottom of the sketch—which would be even more effective when done in oils—was a slogan in black ink: GET OUT OF THE WET AND INTO A W HITE M ANOR .
    â€œYes,”