“Damn woman!” he said at length.
He turned to his meditations.
“Damn impertinent woman!”
Another interval for reflection, and he spoke again.
“Damn impertinent, interfering woman that!”
He reached out for the bottle of Bourbon and filled his glass. He put it to his lips, then slowly withdrew it.
“Damn impertinent, inter—I wonder!”
There was a small mirror on the opposite wall. He walked unsteadily toward it and put out his tongue. He continued in this attitude for a time, then, with increased dejection, turned away.
He placed a hand over his heart. This seemed to depress him still further. Finally he went to the table, took up the glass, poured its contents carefully back into the bottle, which he corked and replaced on the shelf.
On the floor against the wall was a pair of Indian clubs. He picked these up and examined them owlishly. He gave them little tentative jerks. Finally, with the air of a man carrying out a great resolution, he began to swing them. He swung them in slow, irregular sweeps, his eyes the while, still glassy, staring fixedly at the ceiling.