"What is it? It—it's horrible."
"It's the best stuff you ever tasted," he told her bluntly. "You needn't get up. You are all right as you are."
But she sat up, nevertheless, and looked at him confusedly. "Where am I?" she said.
He seated himself on the corner of a table that creaked loudly beneath his weight. It seemed to her that he looked even more massive than usual—a bed-rock of strength. His eyes met hers with a certain mastery.
"You are in a private room in a private hotel," he said. "I brought you here."
"In a hotel!" She stared at him for a moment, stricken silent by the information; then quickly she rose to her feet. "Oh, but I—I can't stay!" she said. "I have no money."
"I know," said Mercer. He remained seated on the table edge, his hands in his pockets, his eyes unwaveringly upon her. "That's where I come in," he told her, with a touch of aggressiveness, as though he sighted difficulties ahead. "I have money—plenty of it. And you are to make use of it."
She stood motionless, gazing at him. His eyes never left her. She could not quite fathom his look, but it was undoubtedly stern.
"Mr. Mercer," she said at last, rather piteously, "I—indeed I am grateful to you, much more than grateful. But—I can't!"
"Rubbish!" said Mercer curtly. "If you weren't a girl, I should tell you not to be a fool!"