"Yes, Mr. Hudson, I would. Because, you see, I did. It was just a sort of
panic. Too much moonshine."

"Yes, ma'am. Too much moonshine inside of Dickie. I hope"--he leaned
toward her, and Sheila, the child, could not help but be flattered by his
deference--"I hope you're not thinking that Dickie's unfortunate habit is
my fault. I'm his father and I own that saloon. But, all the same, it's
not my fault nor The Aura's fault either. I never did spoil Dickie. And
I'm a sober man myself. He's just naturally ornery, no account. He always
was. I believe he's kind of lacking in the upper story."

"Oh, _no_, Mr. Hudson!"

The protest was so emphatic that Sylvester pulled his cigar out of his
mouth, brushed away the smoke, and looked searchingly at Sheila. She was
sitting very straight. Against the crimson plush of an enormous
chair-back her small figure looked extravagantly delicate and her little
pointed fingers on the arms, startlingly white and fine. A color flamed
in her cheeks, her eyes and lips were possessed by the remorseful
earnestness of her appeal.

"Well, say, if _you_ think not!" Sylvester narrowed his eyes and thrust
the cigar back into a hole made by his mouth for its reception; "you're
the first person that hasn't kind of agreed with me on that point. I
can't see why he took to the whiskey, anyway. Moderation's my motto and
always was. It's the motto of The Aura. There ain't a bar east nor west
of the Rockies, Miss Sheila, believe _me_, that has the reputation for
decency and moderation that my Aura has. She's classy, she's
stylish--well, sir--she's exquisite"--he pronounced it ex-_squis_it--"I
don't mind sayin' so. She's a saloon in a million. And she's famous. You