“Not exactly,” he replied, “but I usually give it up.”
“And the money you get from it falls to you?”
“Yes,—perquisites,” he said, lightly.
“For me,” she went on, twisting around the gold bangle on her wrist, “you go about the ocean sleeping on a shelf—”
“Or in a hammock,” he interrupted, with a smile.
“In order that I may be clothed in fine raiment.”
“I don’t know about the fineness of it,” he said, critically surveying the coarse wrap still hanging about her shoulders.
She threw it far from her; then, pointing to the photograph behind her, said: “Do you always leave it there?”
“No; when a stranger takes possession I move it.”
“So you remember me when I was like that?” she said, getting up, and gazing again at the round-cheeked, diminutive baby head staring at her from the wall.