The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleased him, and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moved directly away from the door and toward the sideboard.
“Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you. What will it be? Whisky?”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, as he followed her, though he still carried the big revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at the unguarded open door.
She filled a glass for him at the sideboard.
“I promised to drink with you,” she said hesitatingly. “But I don't like whisky. I... I prefer sherry.”
She lifted the sherry bottle tentatively for his consent.
“Sure,” he answered, with a nod. “Whisky's a man's drink. I never like to see women at it. Wine's more their stuff.”
She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic.
“Here's to finding you a good position—”
But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on his face. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips.