“But I don’t choose to talk with you.”
She made as if to pass on, but again he blocked her path.
“I know you don’t,” he replied, “but I choose to talk with you, and I’m going to do it—now.”
His voice rose at the end, and he moved nearer to her. It was plain that he was both angry and determined. It was plain too that he had been drinking. His utterance was hoarse and thick, and he slurred an occasional word, as half-drunken men do. The controversy attracted the attention of people passing by, and they stopped to look and listen. She dreaded a scene. It would doubtless be wiser to humor him.
“Very well,” she said. “You may walk with me. I am going toward home.”
“No,” he replied, “I’ll not walk with you. We’ll go in here to the Silver Star, and sit down quietly, and have it out alone.”
He took her arm, turned her about, and moved with her to the side door of the saloon. She did not demur. So long as he must talk with her it might as well be there as elsewhere. They entered, crossed the hall, and went into the private room, scene of many conferences between the labor leader and Bricky Hoover the workmen’s champion.
An aproned waiter came in and stood at attention.
“Bring a glass of vermouth for this lady,” said Lamar, “and the usual whiskey for me; and be quick about it.”
He sat at the table and held his head in his hand, but he did not speak to her again until the drinks had been served.