She paused, holding a cup and saucer in her hand, but turning her eyes
towards the window. Carrissima saw that they were moist when Bridget
began again.

"We gave up the house because he couldn't rest long in any one place,
and yet he could never write at his best moving about. You know,
Carrissima, it was really a tragedy. He took such pains--writing and
re-writing, especially after he and I were left alone; but he knew he
wasn't reaching his own standard. He never said a word, but of course
I saw he was worrying himself to death. I have copies of all his
novels; they are over on that shelf," she said, turning towards a pair
of hanging shelves at the farther end of the room. "And there are
portfolios full of press cuttings. I used to cut them out and paste
them in for him. It seems like a dream to look back. You know I used
to think of you as ever so much older than myself, because you seemed
to be the mistress of the house."

"Well," answered Carrissima, "I am not many months younger."

"Ah! but now I regard you as quite a child in comparison."

"That doesn't prevent me from being twenty-two," said Carrissima.

"No, of course not, but the actual years are nothing. It's all that's
crowded into them--oh dear! I have had such experiences! During the
last few months of poor father's life we lived in an _appartement_ in
Paris, and afterwards I didn't know what to do or where to go, so I
kept it on for myself. I used to go to Ronseau's studio--you've heard
of Ronseau?--till he convinced me it wasn't of the slightest use to
persevere. Then I came to London and soon began to wish I hadn't.