“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.