When dinner was on the table she set out the bottle of Scotch and the glasses. Bob declined.
“Tell you the truth, Jess,” he said. “I’ve cut out the drink. Help yourself, of course. If you don’t mind I’ll try some of the seltzer straight.”
“You’ve stopped drinking?” she said, looking at him steadily and unsmilingly. “What for?”
“It wasn’t doing me any good,” said Bob. “Don’t you approve of the idea?”
Jessie raised her eyebrows and one shoulder slightly.
“Entirely,” she said with a sculptured smile. “I could not conscientiously advise any one to drink or smoke, or whistle on Sunday.”
The meal was finished almost in silence. Bob tried to make talk, but his efforts lacked the stimulus of previous evenings. He felt miserable, and once or twice his eye wandered toward the bottle, but each time the scatching words of his bibulous friend sounded in his ear, and his mouth set with determination.
Jessie felt the change deeply. The essence of their lives seemed to have departed suddenly. The restless fever, the false gayety, the unnatural excitement of the shoddy Bohemia in which they had lived had dropped away in the space of the popping of a cork. She stole curious and forlorn glances at the dejected Bob, who bore the guilty, look of at least a wife-beater or a family tyrant.
After dinner the colored maid who came in daily
[38]
