"Then I'd knock louder and louder, and perhaps kick once or twice if you didn't come to the door and let me in."
He laughed. After a moment she laughed, too; her dark eyes were very friendly now. Watching the amusement in his face, she continued to sip from his tall, frosted glass, quite unconscious of any distaste for it. On the contrary, she experienced a slight exhilaration which was gradually becoming delightful to her.
"Scotch-and-soda is rather nice, after all," she observed. "I had no idea—What is the matter with you, Duane?"
"You haven't swallowed all that, have you?"
"Yes, is it much?"
He stared, then with a shrug: "You'd better cut out that sort of thing."
"What?" she asked, surprised.
"What you're doing."
"Tasting your Scotch? Pooh!" she said, "it isn't strong. Do you think I'm a baby?"
"Go ahead," he said, "it's your funeral."