She was in the act of pocketing a silver race cup, won by Ponsonby at a Pony Hurdle Handicap on the Bombay course in 1890, when Ponsonby came back. He caught her wrist and bade her drop it. She gave it up sullenly. Then, with a sudden accession of feminine meekness, she said she would go—if he would stand her a drink.
It seemed a cheap bargain. The unwitting Ponsonby got out another glass from the buffet cupboard, and mixed her a brandy and soda, not too weak. She drew a chair—his wife’s chair—to the table, and sat down, throwing her dingy cloak from her whitewashed shoulders. She put her hand to her head, and drew thence a long steel pin with a blue glass head, and took her gaudy bonnet off and threw it on the table. She did not hurry over the consumption of the liquid, and Ponsonby began to grow impatient. When he hinted this, she asked for a cigar.
He gave her one, and a light. And she drained the last drop in the tumbler, and stuck the burning weed between her teeth, with a coarse masquerade of masculinity. Ponsonby heaved a sigh of relief.
“Now, my girl, come along—time’s up!� He started for the door.
The Pantheress got up, and leaned against the mantelshelf, smoking. She intimated that she had changed her mind—and would remain. Ponsonby lost his temper, and threatened ejection by main force.
“Put me out? You daren’t!� rejoined the Pantheress. She added some adjectives reflecting upon Ponsonby and the honor of his family—but with those we have nothing to do.
Ponsonby’s under jaw came out, and his forehead lowered. He strode toward the Pantheress; her sex was not going to plead for that delicate piece of femininity, it was evident.
“I daren’t, eh?�
“You daren’t. Because I’d tear, and scratch, and scream, I would—till the police came—till your wife woke up and came downstairs to see what the row was about. Nice for you, then! Easy for you to explain—with two glasses on the table!�
Ponsonby broke into a cool perspiration. He spake in his soul and cursed himself for a fool—of all fools the one most thoroughly impregnated with foolery. For he saw that he had been trapped. The Pantheress rocked upon her hips and laughed, shaking out a coarse aroma of patchouli from her shabby garments.