“And who is the other girl? Your sister?”
“There is no one else here but me,” replied Dora, surprised at the question.
“That’s funny. I must be seeing double. Last bottle gone to my head. Time to quit. All your fault, John Pierson—all your fault, not mine,” muttered the woman, with a maudlin laugh, staggering at the same time so that Dora thought she was falling. She hastened to bring a chair, where the woman tried to seat herself with extreme gravity, while Dora said:
“Don’t thank me, lady. I’ll go and hurry father. Please have the kindness to wait. I won’t be long.”
Dora tripped lightly up the steps and to the street, while Muriel settled herself into the chair and dozed almost at once. In the meantime Pierson silently watched Dora disappear, and then, turning to Dopey, said, in a low voice:
“You are right. She is both young and beautiful.”
“Yes, cull, and poor; jes’ as poor as a choich mouse. Show her some shines—dimints, I mean. Tell her about de glad rags, de nags and de chariot—and, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it!”
“Hush! Not so loud,” replied Pierson, looking toward Muriel, which caused him to speak in a much lower tone as he gave his very unfavorable opinion of the intoxicated woman, comparing her to a bunch of wildcats. Suddenly Muriel roused and began to sing, in a drowsy voice, the words of a drinking-song. Pierson rudely ordered her to “shut up,” which had no other effect than to make the woman repeat her song in a louder voice.
“Oh, I say, for heaven’s sake, keep still! Of all the disgusting things on earth, a drunken woman is the worst,” said Pierson angrily, while he stamped his foot in rage.
“Ah!” said she, acridly, “and how about a drunken man? Is there such a wide difference?”