“That was fine,” he exclaimed, as we ceased with the music. “You are a very nice, little girl; come and have another drink.”
Back into the dining-room we went, and despite my refusals, he handed me a glass of the improved claret cup.
He drank his at a gulp; I sipped mine.
“Drink it, it will do you good,” he commanded.
The effect of the previous glass was still upon me, the taste of the second was already tingling through my system. “Drink,” he enjoined again with a grin. Some boys and girls were regarding me curiously, laughingly. I drank. I then caught sight of the decanter that my companion had emptied into the punch-bowl. “What a beautiful decanter!” I remarked, and peered at the delicate tracings cut into the glass. Among the branches, leaves and flowers, nymphs and cupids, I saw the word “Whiskey.” I put down the glass and took Charlie Lien’s arm and faced towards the door. He followed my lead; I wished to gain our old seat.
“Not there,” he whispered, and led me through the hall, then through the ball-room and on into the conservatory. My head was drooping, my brain was in a whirl. He led me to a secluded seat. The odour of flowers was in the air. In the uncertain light, however, my senses seemed clouded, my faculties unbalanced.
He sat, I—flopped, I felt like swooning.
“You are not used to claret cup,” he said.
“That was whiskey you put into the punch-bowl,” I charged him.
“Just a little,” he protested.