He went to the table and poured out something in a glass.
"Drink that," he said, holding it towards her. "It'll warm you up."
Nan sniffed at the liquid in the glass and tendered it back to him with a grimace.
"It's brandy," she said. "I hate the stuff."
"You'll drink it, though, won't you?"—persuasively.
"No," shaking her head. "I can't bear the taste of it."
"But it's good for you." He stood in front of her, glass in hand.
"Come, Nan, don't be foolish. You need something before we start.
Drink it up."
He held it to her lips, and Nan, too proud to struggle or resist like a child, swallowed the obnoxious stuff. As Trenby drove her home she had time to reflect upon the fact that if she married him there would be many a contest of wills between them. He roused a sense of rebellion in her, and he was unmistakably a man who meant to be obeyed.
Her thoughts went back to Peter Mallory. Somehow she did not think she would ever have found it difficult to obey him.