“No,” answered Ralston, calmly, but in a doubtful tone. “I’m not. But you’ve made an accusation, and if you fail to prove it, Mr. Beman will form his opinion about you. I formed mine long ago. I’m turning out to be right.”
“I’m quite indifferent to your opinion,” said Alexander, contemptuously. “And you’re not in a position to influence that of lifelong friends like Mr. Beman. We’d better end this discussion at once. It can lead to nothing.”
Katharine, who still stood by the door, her hand on the curtain, devoutly wished that in this, at least, John would follow her father’s suggestion. She had a woman’s instinctive fear of violence between men—a fear, strange to say, which has a fascination in it. If John had been inwardly as calm as he outwardly appeared to be, he would undoubtedly have seen that Alexander was right in this. But the insulting words which he had inevitably overheard rankled, as well they might, and against all probability of success, he still hoped that Alexander would make some acknowledgment of having been in the wrong. He thrust his hands into his pockets and made two or three steps, his head bent in thought. Then he turned upon his adversary suddenly again.
“Do you know—or don’t you—that I’ve given up wine since last winter?” he enquired.
“I’ve heard it stated,” answered Alexander. “I don’t know it.”
“Well—it’s true. I tell you so now. I suppose you’ll make no further difficulty about taking back what you said to Katharine just now—that I’m a drunkard?”
“If you have given up wine, you are certainly not a drunkard—at present. That’s axiomatic.” Alexander sneered.
“Will you remove the condition? I say that I have given up wine.”
“I should hesitate to accept your unsupported evidence.”
“In other words, you don’t admit that I’m speaking the truth? Is that what you mean to say? Yes, or no.”