"O father, don't take any more!" cried Dolly, seeing a preparatory movement of the hand towards the bottle. "O father! don't, don't! One glass is enough. Don't take any more to-day!"
"You talk like a goose, Dolly," said Mr. Copley, filling his glass. "I feel better already for that. It has done me good."
"You only think so. It is not doing you good. O father! if you love me, put the bottle away. Don't take a drop more!"
Dolly had turned pale in her agony of pleading; and her father, conscious in part, and ashamed with that secret consciousness, and taken by surprise at her action, looked at her and—did not drink.
"What's the matter with you, child?" he said, trying for an unconcerned manner. "Why should not I take wine, like everybody else in the world?"
"Father, it isn't good for people."
"I beg your pardon; it is very good for me. Indeed, I cannot be well without it."
"That's the very thing, father; people cannot do without it; and then it comes to be the master; and then—they cannot help themselves. Oh, do let it alone!"
"What's the matter, Dolly?" Mr. Copley repeated with an air of injury, which was at the same time miserably marred by embarrassment. "Do you think I cannot help myself? or how am I different from every other gentleman who takes wine?"
"Father, a great many of them are ruined by it."