Yet she went to the door.
“Oh—it’s only you,” she said, and, with no other greeting, walked back into the room, and sat down at the table.
The newcomer was left to close the outer door, and to follow at her own pleasure. The newcomer was another girl, younger, prettier, smarter. She turned her head sidewise, like a little bird, and looked at her friend with very bright eyes. Then she looked round the room.
“My dear Jane,” she said, “whatever have you been doing to yourself?”
“Nothing,” said her dear Jane very sulkily.
“Oh, if genius burns—your stairs are devilish—but if you’d rather I went away——”
“No, don’t go, Milly. I’m perfectly mad.” She jumped up and waved her outstretched arms over the mass of papers on the table. “Look at all this—three days’ work—rot—abject rot! I wish I was dead. I was wondering just now whether it would hurt much if one leaned too far out of the window—and—— No, I didn’t do it—as you see.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the other prosaically.
“Nothing. That’s just it. I’m perfectly well—at least I was—only now I’m all trembly with drink.” She pointed to the tea-cups. “It’s the chance of my life, and I can’t take it. I can’t work: my brain’s like batter. And everything depends on my idiot brain—it has done for these five years. That’s what’s so awful. It all depends on me—and I’m going all to pieces.”
“I told you so!” rejoined the other. “You would stay in town all the summer and autumn, slaving away. I knew you’d break down, and now you’ve done it.”