"I never heard anybody complain," Gilbert smiled. "After two or three of 'em, I never saw anybody able to complain!"
He started toward the kitchen.
"What does it taste like?" said Pell, detaining him.
"Oh, sort of like gasoline with bichloride of mercury in it," Jones answered his eager questioner.
"No wood alcohol?" suspiciously. Pell was always looking out for himself.
"Oh, it's safe enough, I assure you. Would you like to try some of it?" Gilbert suggested.
Pell thought a moment—but only a moment. "I'll try anything once, and anything to drink more than once—if I'm alive the second time."
His host smiled. "I'll get you some if there's any left," and went to the kitchen to see. He couldn't help wondering why a man like Morgan Pell, with so many responsibilities, should wish to drink tequila.
Left alone, there was that strange silence between Lucia and her husband which so often occurred nowadays. A barrier was between them, none the less real because it was invisible. She knew his moods so well, and she dreaded the things he might say, all his inhibitions gone, if he drank any of this deadly Mexican stuff. She would have halted Gilbert had she dared; but she knew that any such action on her part would have aroused Pell the more, inflamed him to anger; and, like most women of fine breeding, she dreaded a scene more than anything in the world. All that she said now was merely,
"I wish you wouldn't do that."