He smiled and leaned condescendingly toward her.
"What's your hurry?" she murmured.
He looked at her, and the weak light and the strong liquor stood her in good stead.
"I ain't in no hurry," he smiled.
She met him smile for smile—and then, in a sudden sense of triumph, she flung back her head and laughed.
It was not until three hours later that he finally left her, but he left hurriedly, for the remorseless gray light of morning was coming in at the window, and it fell upon her as she wrapped a soiled pink kimona around her shivering figure and slipped her feet into a pair of rundown Turkish slippers.
"Good-by," he said, looking away from her.
"Wait a minute," said Mary. "I'll go with you to the door."
She did go. She followed him down the dark stairway, creaking noisily under their shamed feet, and she stood for a moment in the black hall, holding the brass knob of the door, as he passed to the step outside. Mary slipped the dead-latch, ready to bolt the door.
"Max," she said.