Shortly after the birth of Camille I had to go to London, and it was
nearly a year before I came back to Paris. Nina was looking better
than when I had left, but still in nowise like her old self--pale and
worn and worried, with a smile that was the ghost of her former one.
She had been waiting for my return, she said, to have a long talk with
me. 'I have made a little plan. I want you to advise me. Of course you
must advise me to stick to it.'

And when we had reached her lodgings, and were alone in the salon, 'It
is about Camille, it is about her bringing-up,' she explained. 'The
Latin Quarter? It is all very well for you, for me; but for a growing
child? Oh, my case was different; I had my father. But Camille?
Restaurants, cafés, studios, the Boul' Miche, and this little
garret--do they form a wholesome environment? Oh, no, no--I am not a
renegade. I am a Bohemian; I shall always be; it is bred in the bone.
But my daughter--ought she not to have the opportunity, at least, of
being different, of being like other girls? You see, I had my father;
she will have only me. And I distrust myself; I have no "system."
Shall I not do better, then, to adopt the system of the world? To give
her the conventional education, the conventional "advantages"? A home,
what they call home influences. Then, when she has grown up, she can
choose for herself. Besides, there is the question of francs and
centimes. I have been able to earn a living for myself, it is true.
But even that is more difficult now; I can give less time to work; I
am in debt. And we are two; and our expenses must naturally increase
from year to year. And I should like to be able to put something
aside. Hand-to-mouth is a bad principle when you have a growing
child.'