‘So am I,’ he assented, heartily. ‘This confessional business has made me thirstier than ever. Well, what about a drink? There’s some gin left there.’
‘Ugh! Not for me. I’ve not come to mopping straight gins yet. That’ll be the last act. You wouldn’t like to see me soaking gin now, would you?’
He admitted that he wouldn’t. And he meant it. It was curious how the idea revolted him. He had a quick shuddering thought of gay and impudent youth, of something that deliciously held the balance between the urchin and the woman, rotted away: a mere trick, of course, of associations, but nevertheless very curious.
‘Isn’t there anything else?’ she went on. ‘One whisky now, and I’d face the rest of the night cheerfully. Sir Bill there, the greedy pig, swallowed all we had as soon as we came in. If you want to know how those men make so much money, that explains it. They’re greedy pigs.’
Penderel looked at the table and rubbed his chin. ‘I’m with you about the whisky. But there’s none here.’
‘Well, it’s a dam shame, now, isn’t it? Why don’t you carry a flask?’
He stared at her and suddenly struck his left palm with his right hand. ‘Why,’ he cried, ‘what a fool I am!’
‘Of course you are.’ She made a mocking little face. ‘But what’s the big idea?’
‘I don’t carry a flask as a rule, but I had one to-day. I’d forgotten all about it. You can hardly believe it, can you? But it’s true. I had one, I had one, full of good whisky. I remember having one little drink out of it, when we started off again just after dinner.’
‘What about it, then?’ she asked him. ‘You’re not going to be a greedy pig, are you? You’re not going to tell me now that little girls oughtn’t to drink whisky?’