"I said," Lucinda replied icily, "I'm not sorry you couldn't get here sooner. Surely you can't imagine I'd care to have my friends see you as you are, in the middle of the afternoon. It's bad enough to have them know you get in this condition nearly every night."
"But—look here, Linda: be reasonable——"
"I think I have been—what you call reasonable—long enough—too long!"
Bellamy hesitated, nervously moistening his lips, glancing sidelong this way and that. But there was nobody in the foyer at the moment but themselves; even the coatroom girls had retired to their office and were well out of ear-shot of the quiet conversational key which, for all her indignation, Lucinda had adopted. For all of which the man should have been abjectly grateful. Instead of which (such is the wicked way of drink) Bellamy took heart of these circumstances, their temporary isolation and Lucinda's calculated quietness, and offered to bluster it out.
"Here—take these flowers, won't you? Plenty for you and all your friends. Tha's what kept me so long—had to go all over to find enough."
Again Lucinda defeated his attempt to disburden himself. "Oh, Bel!" she cried sadly—"how can you be such a fool?"
"How'm I a fool? Like flowers, don't you? Thought I was going to please you.... And this is what I get!"
"You know all the orchids in New York couldn't make up for your drinking."
"Why cut up so nasty about a little drink or two? Way you talk, anyone'd think I was reeling."
"You will be before night, if you keep this up."