“Now, come, Clarer—don’t try to put on—airs—before the preacher—er. I ain’t jealous—a—bit—er. No, for I know—you prefer me—ter all the—er men on earth, don’t you—er, dear, eh? What—won’t you—speak to me? Never mind, Parson, when you go—er she’ll be pleasant enough. Some—times she gets—into one of her—er—contantnums before—er company—and there’s no doin’ anything with her—have ter let ’er alone till she—sobers up—er.”
“I must be going,” suddenly said Ernest, rising. “I have some other calls to make.”
“Thank you for your visit,” said Clara. “Call again if you can.”
“Yes—er—come again, Parson,—if I arn’t at home—Clarer will—er entertain you.”
Clara left the parlor, as Ernest did, and Comston fell asleep upon a sofa. When he awoke, he had partly emerged from his state of intoxication. Arising, and going into Clara’s room, he said:
“Had a nice time with the preacher, dear? I think, though, you might have treated me with a little more respect. You wouldn’t speak to me. What is the matter?”
“You have made a fool of yourself,” cried Clara, in anger and vexation. “I have told you I wanted you to keep away from me when you are drunk. You make a brute of yourself.”
“Why, I thought I was entertaining the minister very nicely. You wouldn’t talk to him, and it wouldn’t do for all of us to sit still like Quakers, would it?”
“You made a complete fool of yourself,” she said with face flashing with anger. “I am getting so I hate you—yes, I hate you.”
“Now don’t provoke me, dear. You know I can’t control my savage temper when I’m aroused. Don’t you remember how you provoked me the other day till I was about to strike you?”