"That's what she does," said Olga, pointing to the walls. "She's awfully clever really, and she'll make a great success with that sort of thing before long, I'm sure. Look at that advertisement of Honey's Castor Oil. Isn't the child's face splendid?"
"Very clever indeed," assented Irene, and laughed again, her cousin joining in her mirth. Five minutes ago she had felt anything but hilarious; the impulse to gaiety came she knew not how, and she indulged it with a sense of relief.
"Are you doing the same sort of thing, Olga?"
"Wish I could. I've a little work for a new fashion paper; have to fill in the heads and arms, and so on. It isn't high art, you know, but they pay me."
"Why in the world do you do it? Why do you live in a place like this?"
"Oh, I like the life; on the whole. It's freedom; no society nonsense—I beg your pardon, Irene——"
"Please don't. I hope I'm not much in the way of society nonsense. Sit down; I want to talk. When did you see your mother?"
"Not for a long time," answered Olga, her countenance falling. "I sent her the new address when I came here, but she hasn't been yet."
"Why don't you go to her?"
"No! I've broken with that world. I can't make calls in Bryanston Square—or anywhere else. That's all over."