“But a man who can walk straight isn’t drunk, Jack—”
“Oh, isn’t he!” exclaimed Ralston, with a sour smile. “They’re the worst kind, sometimes—”
“But I thought that a man who was really drunk—was—was quite senseless, and tumbled down, you know—in a disgusting state.”
“It’s not a pretty subject—especially when you talk about it, dear—but it’s not always of that description.”
It shocked Ralston’s refined nature to hear her speak of such things. For he had all the refinement of nervous natures, like many a man who has been wrecked by drink—even to men of genius without number.
“Isn’t it quite—no, of course it’s not. I know well enough.” Katharine paused an instant. “I don’t care if it’s not what they call refined, Jack. I’m not going to let that sort of squeamishness come between you and me. It’s not as though I’d come upon it as a subject of conversation—and—and I’m not afraid you’ll think any the worse of me because I talk about horrid things, when I must talk about them—when everything depends on them—you and I, and our lives. I must know what it is that you feel—that you can’t resist.”
Ralston felt how strong she was, and was glad.
“Go on,” she said. “Tell me all about it—how it began.”
“That was it—at college, I suppose,” he answered. “Then it grew to be a habit—insensibly, of course. I thought it didn’t hurt me and I liked the excitement. Perhaps I’m naturally melancholic and depressed.”
“I don’t wonder!”