All right
enough, if you're not troubled with an appetite."
The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers
left. The man's tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed
it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the
waiter, added a liqueur.
"But why should you give up your art?" persisted Joan. It was that was
sticking in her mind. "I should have thought that, if only for the sake
of the child, you would have gone on with it."
"Oh, I told myself all that," answered the girl. "Was going to devote my
life to it. Did for nearly two years. Till I got sick of living like a
nun: never getting a bit of excitement. You see, I've got the poison in
me. Or, maybe, it had always been there."
"What's become of it?" asked Joan. "The child?"
"Mother's got it," answered the girl. "Seemed best for the poor little
beggar. I'm supposed to be dead, and my husband gone abroad." She gave
a short, dry laugh. "Mother brings him up to see me once a year. They've
got quite fond of him."
"What are you doing now?" asked Joan, in a low tone.
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