“But he may be ill, Mrs Hampton.”
“He is ill, my dear, and with an illness which brings on a craving he cannot control.”
“Oh?” sighed Gertrude, covering her face with her hands.
“He madly goes and makes himself the slave of a terrible master, who will ruin health, and pocket—destroy him utterly.”
“You are too severe, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.
“Not a bit, my dear.”
“He said he would not take more than Mr Hampton might, or you.”
“That will not do, my dear,” said the old lady calmly. “My husband treats wine and spirits as his slaves, and makes them obey him. I do the same. George Harrington sets what the teetotallers call the great God Alcohol up on a pedestal, and grovels before it in his insane worship.”
“But he is growing so much better, Mrs Hampton.”
“No, my dear. He is only professing to do so. He is the slave and he will go lower and lower. I say then, even with the great wealth he has inherited, is this man the suitable partner of your future?”