“I didn't know she had an attitude,” replied he, trying to focus his wavering gaze upon her.
“She meets him clandestinely and she supports him openly. Is n't that an attitude, or are you too drunk to see it?”
“My dear, remember you are speaking of my sister,” he said with fine dignity but little discrimination. “Besides, I am not too drunk. I do see it. It's a demmed annoying attitude. She 's a traitor, un'stand me? A traito-tor. I intend to speak to her about it.”
“It is better that you should do it,” said his wife. “I am afraid I could not control my temper.”
“Penelope's a disgrace—a nabsolute disgrace; now many legs did Hodder say—”
“Oh, you're disgusting!” cried Lady Evelyn. “Go to bed! I thought I could talk to you to-night, but I can't. You scarcely can stand up.”
“Now, Evelyn, you do me injustice. I'm only holding to this chair to keep it from moving 'round the room. See that? Course I c'n stan' up,” he cried, triumphantly.
“I am utterly disgusted with you. Oh, for a man! A man with real blood in his veins, a man who could do something besides eat and drink at my cost. I pay your debts, clothe you, feed you—house your ungrateful sister—and what do I get in return? This!”
Lord Bazelhurst's eyes steadied beneath this unexpected assault, his legs stiffened, his shoulders squared themselves in a pitiful attempt at dignity.
“Lady Bazelhurst, you—you—” and then he collapsed into the chair, bursting into maudlin tears. She stood over by the dressing-table and looked pitilessly upon the weak creature whose hiccoughing sobs filled the room. Her colour was high, her breathing heavy. In some way it seemed as though there was so much more she could have said had the circumstances been different.