Hurrying on, his progress was soon checked by a strong door, several inches in thickness, and nearly as wide as the passage. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘we haven’t seen you lately,’ and something about ‘Bateson & Co. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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