He looked down at her, a faint smile in his blue eyes. "But I don't
drink--alone," he said in such a tone of gentle explanation as he might
have used to a child.

She stamped her foot. "I hate you!" she said. "I'll never forgive you!"

"A joke's a joke," said Rufus, still in the tone of a mild instructor.

"A joke!" Her wrath enwrapped her like a flame. "It was not a joke! It
was a coarse--and hateful--trick!"

"All right," said Rufus, as one giving up a hopeless task.

"It's not all right!" flashed Columbine. "You're a bounder, an oaf, a
brute! I--I'll never speak to you again, unless--you--you--apologise!"

He was still looking down with that vague hint of amusement in his
eyes--the look of a man who watches the miniature fury of some tiny
creature.

"I'll do anything you like," he said with slow indulgence. "I didn't
know you'd turn nasty, or I wouldn't have done it."

"Nasty!" echoed Columbine. And then her wrath went suddenly into a
superb gust of scorn. "Oh, you--you are beyond words!" she said. "You
had better get along to the bar and drink there. You'll find your own
kind there to drink with."

"I'd rather drink with you," said Rufus.