"Don't go yet, ducky. I am just beginning to like you." It was the voice of Cora—the voice of Cora drunk.
"I will, if you don't mind. That second bottle has been a mistake. And you are not so very amusing, are you?"
"Speak for yourself." And the voice of Cora subsided into some far and deep oblivion.
There was a silence. In the midst of it, the young man suddenly entered the room.
The visitor, who was tall and powerful and well dressed, had the look of a gentleman. Perhaps a gentleman run a little to seed. He was standing on the threadbare hearthrug, his hands in his pockets, in a rather contemptuous attitude, while Cora, unmistakably drunk, had subsided on the sofa. Several bottles with glasses beside them were on the table.
As Henry Harper entered the room, the man looked at him in utter astonishment. His surprise seemed too great to allow him to speak.
"'Ullo, Harry," muttered Cora from her sofa. She did not attempt a more formal or coherent greeting.
He did not know what to say or how to act. He was wholly taken aback by the man's air of cool surprise; indeed his attitude expressed grim resentment for the intrusion of a third person.
"Who is this gentleman, Cora?" at last the young man was able to ask.
"Go to hell," Cora muttered.