"Tired, are you?" he frowned.
"Yes, dear," she pleaded anxiously.
He laughed—a strange, horrid, artificial laugh which made her shudder. She had heard that laugh before and it omened nothing good. Quickly he said:
"I know the best thing in the world to cure that tired feeling—champagne. We'll have some—what do you say?"
He leaned towards her, trying to fondle her, but she avoided him and, falling back, stood looking at him. Her face was pale. Outwardly she was composed, but her heart was beating fast. There must be some explanation, after all. It might as well be now as later. Looking him straight in the face with an expression of contempt and disdain in her eyes that made him wince, she said coldly:
"So you've had some sent to your room—again?"
He nodded in half defiant, half ashamed fashion and Virginia, her tone changing, pleaded with him earnestly:
"Don't touch it now, Robert. Please! Please!"
"Why not?" he demanded defiantly.
"You've had enough already."