“Good! come and have a drink first.”
He led the way into the dining-room, up to the punch-bowl. He gave me a drink and took one himself.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Claret cup.”
We both drank. He smacked his lips and put on a wry face. “Awful trash,” he muttered. “I’ll improve it,” and he took up a large flask and emptied it into the punch-bowl.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Improving the claret cup.”
“What is that you put into it?”
“Oh nothing, some sherry! Come,” he demanded.
We waltzed. Whether it was the effect of the punch or not I don’t know, or whether it was simply reaction after my depression, but a new spirit had come over me. We danced fast and furiously; we suited each other admirably.