“You certainly are not drunk,” she replied. “You’re just—”
“Crazy,” interrupted Ruby.
They laughed.
“Maybe I do have queer impulses,” replied Neale, as he felt his face grow white. “Every once in a while I see a flash—of—of I don’t know what. I could do something big—even—now—if my heart wasn’t dead.”
“Mine’s in its grave,” said Ruby, bitterly. “Come, Stanton, let’s get out of this. Find me men who talk of drink and women.”
Neale deliberately reached out and stopped her as she turned away. He faced her.
“You’re no four-flush,” he said. “You’re game. You mean to play this out to a finish.... But you’re no—no maggot like the most. You can think. You’re afraid to talk to me.”
“I’m afraid of no man. But you—you’re a fool—a sky-pilot. You’re—”
“The thing is—it’s not too late.”
“It is too late!” she cried, with trembling lips.