“Bring me a lamb stew and a beer, light. What’ll you have, little white-face?”
“Some milk and—”
“She means with suds on, waiter.”
“No—no; milk, I said—milk over toast. Milk toast—I gotta eat it. Why don’t you lemme talk, Charley? I gotta tell you.”
He was suddenly sober.
“What’s hurting you? One milk toast, waiter; tell them in the kitchen the lady’s teeth hurt her. What’s up, Sweetness?” And he must lean across the table and imprint a fresh kiss on her lips.
“Don’t—don’t—don’t! For Gawd’s sake, don’t!” She covered her face with her hands; and such a trembling seized her that they fell pitifully away again and showed her features, each distorted, “You mustn’t, Charley! Mustn’t do that again, not—not for three months—you—you mustn’t.”
He leaned across the table; his voice was like sleet—cold, thin, cutting:
“What’s the matter—going to quit?”
“No—no—no!”