"Gerald dear, don't take any more whiskey; you have had two glasses already."
"Luck in odd numbers," he replied gaily, "we don't celebrate our anniversary more than once a year. Just one more, Miriam, and then to bed."
She looked at him in reproof.
"It's the thin end of the wedge, Gerald—you know your weakness!"
He turned on her angrily.
"I ought to; you're always telling me of it."
"Gerald, that is unjust. You know I speak only for your good."
"People invariably do when they have anything disagreeable to say. Hang it, Miriam, you might leave me alone for once in a way. I am awfully sick of your everlasting preaching. Goodness knows I've given up quite enough for you as it is. I never get the taste of a glass of wine; a drop of whiskey at night's my only comfort."
"A comfort which means ruin to you, Gerald—you know it."
"Jove! how like a woman that is—always ready to picture the worst of horrors. Why, I'd like you to see some fellows! What they drink in a night would keep me going a twelvemonth."