Even
when I was right off whisky she used to drive me to it. Evening dress,
you know. Oh, frightfully _evening_! And--in a queer old place we stayed
in in Scotland once there were heaps of mice. She used to run out of her
room in the middle of the night saying she was frightened of them. And
then I had to carry her back, and rub her feet because they'd got cold.
She was rather a maddening sort of person, you know. She'd lead one on
to biting one's nails and tearing one's hair and then she'd laugh and
kiss her hand and run away with my sister into her bedroom. And they'd
both laugh. She understood the value of being a woman, did Violet. And
she didn't let herself go cheap--I used to get the key of the tantalus
and cart a whole decanter of whisky to bed to get over it. If she'd just
have let me kiss her--"
He paused, frowning reminiscently.
Marcella sighed, and laid a cool, firm hand on Louis's.
"Louis--I think I'm--cheap."
"So are air and water, dearie," he cried, with sudden passion that
surprised her.
"I don't think I'll ever understand men, though. Wine, women and song
they seem to lump together into a sort of tolerated degradation."
"I don't know much about song, but women and wine are certainly to be
lumped together. They're both an uncontrollable hunger. And they give
you a thick head afterwards! You say that Professor chap in his lectures
resents women.
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