"No."
"You wouldn't?" "No, I wouldn't!" she said positively. "I don't like it—I don't want it, and even you couldn't make me take it."
She rose abruptly and turned her back so that he might not see the tears in her eyes—tears of mortification and mental anguish. His face more congested than ever, his step uncertain, Stafford stumbled after her:
"I couldn't, eh?" he sneered. "Perhaps you'd like to see me try."
She turned around, almost hysterical. Pleadingly she cried:
"Please don't speak to me like that, dear! It hurts me dreadfully. If I didn't know that it isn't yourself who is talking—"
"Not myself? Then, who is it?"
"It's the man who takes your place when—you are drunk!"
Leaning against a table to steady himself, he stared at her stupidly.
"Well, what about this man?" he sneered. "You don't like him, do you?"