The older men were trying to calm the racket to a more decorous note. But already they had cleared the dishes and glass from his end of the table, and the Magnificent Wreck, with glistening eyes, was applauding, urging him on. He hopped on his chair, like a boy, as he had done years ago at college dinners. He placed one foot on the table to steady himself, raised the long-stemmed wine-glass above his head, and, less certainly, out rolled the second stanza.
It was good to be drunk, if this were being drunk! Again, with all the volume of the first time, sprang the notes of the chorus.
Simmons raised his long-stemmed glass and waved it slowly in a circle above his head. They clapped and stamped and sang over again the chorus.
“Why not leave? Why inflict this on yourself?” the doctor asked his companion.
“That does not make me miserable,” she answered coldly, recognizing how he had mistaken her. “It is foolish, of course, to drink too much. He will be sorry to-morrow.”
“What is it then that burns your eyes, and gives you that look of pain?”
“I will never tell you!”
“Perhaps I can guess,” he answered at random.
Her eyes lost their defiance. Perhaps this subtle doctor, who could read the miseries of life, had seen and comprehended all, that afternoon when he had come to call. The shame that she vowed to herself he should know last of all, he knew, perchance, best of all.
“Don’t reject my sympathy,” he added. “I pity you.”