“I don’t mind.” I answered, feeling myself blush. I had not the courage to counteract her will directly. Not even the old man had that courage. We waited in suspense. After keeping us so for a few minutes, while we smouldered with mortification, she went into another room, and we heard her unlocking a door. She returned with a decanter containing rather less than half a pint of liquor. She put out five tumblers.
“Tha nedna gi’e me none,” said the old man. “Ah’m non a proud chap. Ah’m not.”
“Nor me neither,” said Arthur.
“You will Tom?” she asked.
“Do you want me to?” he replied, smiling.
“I don’t,” she answered sharply. “I want nobody to have it, when you look at the results of it. But if Cyril is having a glass, you may as well have one with him.”
Tom was pleased with her. She gave her husband and me fairly stiff glasses.
“Steady, steady!” he said. “Give that George, and give me not so much. Two fingers, two of your fingers, you know.”
But she passed him the glass. When George had had his share, there remained but a drop in the decanter.
Emily watched the drunkard coldly as he took this remainder.