"Oh! no, you won't, and I am not going to-night."
The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected, never been trained: it was the more dangerous because of that.
"What?" Joan stared at him aghast.
"I said that I am not going to-night."
The awful feeling of familiarity again swept over Joan. She felt that she must have lived through the scene: had made a mistake that must not be made a second time.
"You have been drinking," she said, and her voice shook. She had hoped that she might save him the degradation of knowing that she understood.
"Well! Suppose I have? It has made me live. Set me free. I wonder if you have ever lived?"
"I am afraid not." Joan could not repress the sob that rose in her throat.
"We can live, I bet." Raymond gave his ugly laugh. "That line in our hands gives us the right."
For a moment Joan contemplated escape. Any escape open to her. The telephone, the door, even a call from the window in the heart of the storm. Then the desire was gone and with it all personal fear. She wanted again, in a vague way, to save this man who had once been her friend. She felt that she must save him.