“The same as last night, only a great deal worse,” said Susanna, shutting her eyes and turning her head aside. “It’s all up with me this time, Mrs. Ned. I’m dying, not of drink, but of the want of it. Is that fiend of a woman gone?” “Yes. You ought not to wound her as you did just now. She has been very kind to you.” “I dont care. Oh, dear me, I wonder how long this is going to last?” “Shall I go for the doctor?” “No; what can he do? Stay with me. I wish I could sleep or eat.” “You will be better soon. The doctor says that Nature is making an effort to rescue you from your habit by making it impossible for you to drink. Try and be patient. Will you not take off those heavy boots?” “No, I cant feel my feet without them. I shall never be better,” said Susanna, writhing impatiently. “I’m done for. How old are you? You neednt mind telling me. I shall soon be beyond repeating it.” “I was twenty-five in June last” “I am only twenty-nine. I started at eighteen, and got to the top of the tree in seven years. I came down quicker than I went up. I might have gone on easily for fifteen years more, only for drinking champagne. I wish I had my life to live over again: you wouldnt catch me playing burlesque. If I had got the chance, I know I could have played tragedy or real Italian opera. I had to work hard at first; and they wont fill my place, very readily: thats one comfort. My cleverness was my ruin. Ned was not half so quick. It used to take him months to learn things that I picked up offhand, and yet you see how much better he has done than I.” “Do not disturb yourself with vain regrets. Think of something else. Shall we talk about Marmaduke?” “No, I dont particularly care to. Somehow, at my pass, one thinks most about one’s self, and about things that happened long ago. People that I came to know later on, like Bob, seem to be slipping away from me. There was a baritone in my father’s company, a tremendous man, with shining black eyes, and a voice like a great bell—quite pretty at the top, though: he must have been sixty at least; and he was very fat; but he was the most dignified man I ever saw. You should have heard him do the Duke in Lucrezia Borgia, or sing Pro Peccatis from Rossini’s Stabat Mater! I was ten years old when he was with us, and my grand ambition was to sing with him when I grew up. He would shake his head if he saw Susanetta now. I would rather hear him sing three bars than have ten visits from Bob. Oh, dear! I thought this cursed pain was getting numbed, but it is worse than ever.” “Try to keep from thinking of it. I have often wondered that you never speak of your child. I have heard from my friend in London that it is very well and happy.” “Oh, you mean Lucy. She was a lively little imp.” “Would you not like to see her again?”