"You think so. I've told myself over and over again that when I did get within reach of you--that's just the trouble, I've never quite been able to make up my mind what I'd do to you. I've told myself I'd kill you; in some of my happiest moments, in imagination, I've been wringing your neck; it was a delicious sensation."
"For you?"
"For me."
"Very well, then, give yourself that delicious sensation in real earnest--wring it. Here I am, quite close, ready to make things easy; I promise that I'll do nothing to keep you from wringing it to your heart's content." She had gone right up to him. He drew himself up straight, with a look upon his face as if he were about to take her at her word; but he stood still. Observing his indecision, she laughed. "How long do you propose to keep me waiting? Are you going to wring it now, or--it might be rather a nuisance in such a matter to have one's moment chosen for one--would you rather wait?"
"I'll wait."
"Good; then while you're waiting won't you come closer to the fire and have a drink? That's whisky and soda."
She held out to him a tumbler.
"Don't you give me that."
"Why not? It's warming."
"Last time you gave me something which was--warming."