"And there is your wicked Anthony! He looks worse by artificial light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go."
"Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry wine—?"
The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed.
"It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious when he comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone."
Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart. Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation for gallantry.
"Well—I'll eat just a little—and then you must take me home. You shouldn't have paid off the cab."
He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat on the edge of one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass.
She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. "No more, dear."
A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking. "No—!" And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold her. She relaxed, unresisting.
"I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let me go, darling—please." But he held her the tighter and she did not deny his greedy lips.