Enslee threw her an ugly glance, and wanted to refuse, but could find no reason to give except the truth: that he hated to accept any more of her ministrations. And truth was the one thing that must be kept from these menials at all cost. So he said:
"Mighty nice of you."
Persis went to the vast sideboard, and, while Crofts fussed about her, handing her the shaker, the ice, and bottle after bottle, she prepared the cup as if it were a mystic philter of love. She poured each ingredient into one of the glasses, and held it up to the light to make sure of the measure; then she emptied its contents into the shaker and filled it again from another bottle; and so when the square, squat flagon of gin, the longnecks of Italian and of French vermouth, and the flask of bitters, had contributed each its quota, she pondered aloud:
"That's all, isn't it?"
Willie, who had strolled to the sideboard in a kind of loathing fascination, spoke up:
"Here, barkeeper, you're forgetting the absinthe."
"Oh yes," she said, recalling his particular among the numberless formulas—"six drops of absinthe and twelve drops of lemon."
Crofts passed her the absinthe, and, finding a lemon, sliced it across and handed it to her on a plate. She held it over the shaker and, squeezing, counted the drops.
"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—oh, there went the thirteenth! That's a bad omen." She was so overwrought that a little genuine fear troubled her. Enslee felt it, too, but would frighten the bogie with indifference:
"Hang the omen, so long as the cocktail's not bad."