"Poison!" said she. "It's no poison. Give me the glass." And she
pledged Max, and drank a little of it. "'Tis good punch, Max, and
of my brewing; I don't think you will ever get any better." And she
went back to the sofa again, and sat down, and looked at the
players.

Mr. Brock looked at her white face and fixed eyes with a grim kind
of curiosity. The Count sputtered, and cursed the horrid taste of
the punch still; but he presently took the box, and made his
threatened throw.

As before, the Squire beat him; and having booked his winnings, rose
from table as well as he might and besought to lead him downstairs;
which Mr. Brock did.

Liquor had evidently stupefied the Count: he sat with his head
between his hands, muttering wildly about ill-luck, seven's the
main, bad punch, and so on. The street-door banged to; and the
steps of Brock and the Squire were heard, until they could be heard
no more.

"Max," said she; but he did not answer. "Max," said she again,
laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Curse you," said that gentleman, "keep off, and don't be laying
your paws upon me. Go to bed, you jade, or to--,for what I care;
and give me first some more punch--a gallon more punch, do you
hear?"