"Not for those who use it properly. It might be a glorious thing for a man in your position and with your future."
"Ah, you're young, you see, Miss Gilmore," he exclaimed, with the self-satisfaction of a cynic. "I suppose I thought so once, but there's nothing in it."
"There's opium," I rapped out so sharply that he gave a start and glanced at me. Then he smiled, heavily.
"Oh, you've found that out, eh; or somebody has told you? Yes, I can't live without it now, and I don't want to try. What does it matter?" and he jerked his shoulders with a don't-care gesture.
"I should be ashamed to say that."
"I suppose you would. I suppose you would. I should have been, at one time, when I first began; but not now. Besides, it suits everybody all right. You see, you don't understand."
"I have no intention of trying it."
"No, don't. It's only hell a bit before one's time. But I didn't stop you to talk about this. I don't quite know why I did stop you now;" and he ran his hand across his forehead as if striving to remember.
A painful gesture, almost pathetic and intensely suggestive.
"I suppose it was just a wish to speak to you, that's all," he said at length, wearily. "Oh, I know. You reminded me so much of—of another Christabel of the name you mentioned, Christabel von Dreschler, that I wondered if you could be any relation. You are an American, are you not?"