“I’m glad to know that,” said Crowdie. “I’ve often thought of it and wondered whether we hadn’t made some mistake.” Katharine was amused by what the two men said. She had supposed that a famous painter and a well-known writer, who probably did not spend a morning together more than two or three times a year, would talk profoundly of literature and art. But it was interesting, nevertheless, to hear them speak of little incidents which threw a side-light on their former lives. “Do people who succeed always have such a dreadfully hard time of it?” she asked, addressing the question to both men. “Oh, I suppose most of them do,” answered Crowdie, indifferently. “‘Jordan’s a hard road to travel,’” observed Griggs, mechanically. “Sing it, Walter--it is so funny!” suggested Hester. “What?” asked the painter. “‘Jordan’s a hard road’--” “Oh, I can’t sing and paint. Besides, we’re driving Miss Lauderdale distracted. Aren’t we, Miss Lauderdale?” “Not at all. I like to hear you two talk--as you wouldn’t to a reporter, for instance. Tell me something more about what you did in Paris. Did you live together?” “Oh, dear, no! Griggs was a sort of little great man already in those days, and he used to stay at Meurice’s--except when he had no money, and then he used to sleep in the Calais train--he got nearly ten hours in that way--and he had a free pass--coming back to Paris in time for breakfast. He got smashed once, and then he gave it up.” “That’s pure invention, Crowdie,” said Griggs. “Oh, I know it is. But it sounds well, and we always used to say it was true because you were perpetually rushing backwards and forwards. Oh, no, Miss Lauderdale--Griggs had begun to ‘arrive’ then, but I was only a student. You don’t suppose we’re the same age, do you?” “Oh, Walter!” exclaimed Hester, as though the suggestion were an insult. “Yes, Griggs is--how old are you, Griggs? I’ve forgotten. About fifty, aren’t you?” “About fifty thousand, or thereabouts,” answered the literary man, with a good-humoured smile. Katharine looked at him, turning completely round, for he and Mrs. Crowdie were sitting on the divan behind her. She thought his face was old, especially the eyes and the upper part, but his figure had the sinewy elasticity of youth even as he sat there, bending forward, with his hands folded on his knees. She wished she might be with him alone for a while, for she longed to make him talk about himself. “You always seemed the same age, to me, even then,” said Crowdie. “Does Mr. Crowdie mean that you were never young, Mr. Griggs?” asked Katharine, who had resumed her pose and was facing the artist. “We neither of us mean anything,” said Crowdie, with a soft laugh. “That’s reassuring!” exclaimed Katharine, a little annoyed, for Crowdie laughed as though he knew more about Griggs than he could or would tell.