"You've got me mixed with your dear Bobby, haven't you?" he asked sneeringly.
"Oh, Morris!"
She drew back, flushing even over her neck and arms. Anger as well as pain drove her blood.
"Well—you used just the tone you'd use to a youngster who'd been stealing jam," he said sulkily.
Sophy stood playing with the fan of white feathers. Life seemed a nightmare to her just then. This rude, sullen boy who was yet her husband made her feel as if all the gods of Malice were watching her. She could almost hear the Olympian titter go round the room. She tried to think of some way of lifting their life out of this horrid, commonplace quagmire into which it had slipped so suddenly—and it was as if their life were some huge, smooth, handleless vessel upon which she could not get a grip.
"He isn't himself—this isn't the real Morris——" her thought sanely reminded her. "This is Whiskey...."
She lifted her slight figure with a sudden movement of determination.
"Morris, dear," she said, "I'm not going to let you quarrel with me.... Good-night."
She went swiftly by him into her bedroom. He longed to catch her arms and stop her as she went by, but he did not dare. He turned on his heel and went back into the drawing-room. The butler was clearing away the tray of liqueurs and whiskey.
"Hold on a moment, Jennings," said Loring. He took another stiff drink. As often happens, this lost dram of whiskey wrought a totally different mood in him. Within five minutes his anger had merged into a wild impulse of desire. He wondered now that he could have been so curt with his Selene. He understood as in a flash of revelation why she had objected to that "rotten dance." He wanted to tell her so with devouring kisses. He waited until the servants had withdrawn, then went to her bedroom door.