That's bad for both of
us. . . . You're drinking as much as ever?"
"More," replied she. "It takes more and more."
"How can you expect to get on?" cried he, exasperated.
"As I told you, I couldn't make a cent if I didn't drink."
Freddie stared moodily at her, then at the floor--they were in
her room. Finally he said:
"You get the best class of men. I put my swell friends on to
where you go slipping by, up and down in the shadow--and it's
all they can do to find you. The best class of men--men all
the swell respectable girls in town are crazy to hook up
with--those of 'em that ain't married already. If you're good
enough for those chaps they ought to be good enough for you.
Yet some of 'em complain to me that they get thrown down--and
others kick because you were too full--and, damn it, you act so
queer that you scare 'em away. What am I to do about it?"
She was silent.
"I want you to promise me you'll take a brace."
No answer.
"You won't promise?"
"No--because I don't intend to. I'm doing the best I can."
"You think I'm a good thing. You think I'll take anything off
you, because I'm stuck on you--and appreciate that you ain't on
the same level with the rest of these heifers. Well--I'll not
let any woman con me. I never have. I never will. And I'll
make you realize that you're not square with me. I'll let you
get a taste of life as it is when a girl hasn't got a friend
with a pull.
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