evening she would be drunk again, and, when I taxed her with it, say that she wasn’t drunk, that she was sick, and that she prayed the Almighty on her knees to strike her dead if she had a bottle in the house.  Aye, and the very stool she knelt on would be a wine case with a red cloth stuck to it with a few gilt-headed nails to make it look like a piece of furniture.  Next day she would laugh at me for believing her, and ask me what use I supposed there was in talking to her.  How she managed to hold on at the theatre, I dont know.  She wouldnt learn new parts, and stuck to old ones that she could do in her sleep, she knew them so well.  She would go on the stage and get through a long part when she couldnt walk straight from the wing to her dressing-room.  Of course, her voice went to the dogs long ago; but by dint of screeching and croaking she pulls through.  She says she darent go on sober now; that she knows she should break down.  The theatre has fallen off, too.  The actors got out of the place one by one—­they didnt like playing with her—­and were replaced by a third-rate lot.  The audiences used to be very decent:  now they are all cads and fast women.  The game is up for her in London.  She has been offered an engagement in America on the strength of her old reputation; but what is the use of it if she continues drinking.”

“That is very sad,” said Douglas, with cold disgust, perfunctorily veiled by a conventional air of sympathy.  “But if she is irreclaimable, why not leave her?”

“So I would, only for the child.  I have left her—­at least, I’ve taken lodgings in town; but I am always running out to Laurel Grove.  I darent trust Lucy to her; and she knows it; for she wouldnt let me take the poor little creature away, although she doesnt care two straws for it.  She knows that it gives her a grip over me.  Well, I have not seen her for a week past.  I have tried the trick of only going out in the evening when she has to be at the theatre.  And now she has sent me a long letter; and I dont exactly know what to do about it.  She swears she has given up drinking—­not touched a spoonful since I saw her last.  She’s as superstitious as an old woman; and yet she will swear to that lie with oaths that make me uncomfortable, although I am pretty thick-skinned in religious matters.  Then she goes drivelling on about me having encouraged her to drink at first, and then turned upon her and deserted her when I found out the mischief I had done.  I used to stand plenty of champagne, but I am sure I never thought what would come of it.  Then she says she gave up every friend in the world for me:  broke with her brother, and lost her place in society. Her place in society, mind you, Douglas!  Thats not bad, is it?  Then, of course, I am leaving her to die alone with her helpless child:  I might have borne with her a little longer:  she will not trouble me nor anyone else much more; and so on.  The upshot is that she wants me to come back.