“As you please,” said Brisson; “but you’ve had two glasses already.”
“I don’t care,” she retorted childishly; “I mean to live to the utmost in future. For the first time in my silly existence I intend to be natural. I wonder what it feels like to become a little intoxicated?”
“It feels rotten,” remarked Estridge.
“Really? How rotten?” She laughed again, laid her hand on the goblet’s stem and glanced across at him defiantly, mischievously. However, she seemed to reconsider the matter, for she picked up a cigarette and lighted it at a candle.
“Bah!” she exclaimed with a wry face. “It stings!”
But she ventured another puff or two before placing it upon a saucer among its defunct fellows.
“Ugh!” she complained again with a gay little shiver, and bit into a pear as though to wash out the contamination of unaccustomed nicotine.
“Where are you going when we all say good-bye?” inquired Estridge.
“I? Oh, I’m certainly going home on the first Danish boat––home to Shadow Hill, where I told you I lived.”
“And you have nobody but your aunt?”