"Hot water or cold? You'll have it hot, if you take my advice," said the landlady, with a glance at the bloodshot eyes that glared so strangely out of the deathly white face.
"Neither, thanks," said Tom, tossing off the raw spirit at a gulp.
It tasted to him like so much water; it did not muddle his brain, it cleared it, it nerved him for that interview with Rose.
"Another sixpennyworth, please," he said, laying down a shilling on the table.
The landlady paused, and coughed behind her hand; she had sons of her own.
"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, pushing him back sixpence. "You've took as much as is good for you, and ne'er a drop of water.
"You can serve me or leave it alone," said Tom, angrily. "I'm ill; I need it. It tastes like so much water."
The landlady shook her head but gave him the brandy, and Tom, having swallowed it, bade her a civil good night and went on his way.
The landlady hurried to the door and looked after him; he was walking very fast but quite straight.
"It may have gone to his head, but it's not got into his legs," she said, a note of admiration in her voice.