"You have just left the personification of everything I detest," he volunteered. "You heard what his father said about raising him—how he taught Bob to drink when he drank and follow in his footsteps? Well, sometimes the theory works and a boy grows up with open eyes, but more often it turns out as it has in this case. Bob's an alcoholic, a common drunkard, and he'll end in an institution, sure. He'd be there now if it wasn't for Hannibal's money. He's run the gamut of extravagance; he's done everything freakish that there is to do. But that isn't what I want to say to you. Help me feed these foolish goldfish while I talk."
"Do you think anybody would understand if they overheard you? I fancied you and I were the only sober ones left."
"Some of the girls are all right." Merkle eyed his companion closely.
"Don't you drink?"
"I daren't, even if I cared to."
"Daren't?"
"You'll notice that most of the pretty girls are sober."
"Right."
"I have nothing but my looks. Wouldn't I be a fool to sacrifice them?"
"You seem to be sensible, Miss Knight. Something tells me you're very much the right sort. I know you're trying to get ahead, and—I can help you if you'll help me."
"Help you 'get ahead'?"