ns," I humbly
added, as I sank back from my hostile attitude; "now you have none."

I thought he bestowed upon me a look of quiet pity, but if so he soon
hid it with his uplifted glass.

"Forget the girl," said he; "I know of a dozen just as pretty."

I was too indignant to answer.

"Women are the bane of life," he now sententiously exclaimed. "They
are ever intruding themselves between a man and his comfort, as for
instance just now between yourself and this good wine."

I caught up the bottle in sheer desperation.

"Don't talk of them," I cried, "and I will try and drink. I almost
wish there was poison in the glass. My death here might bring
punishment upon you."

He shook his head, totally unmoved by my passion.

"We deal punishment, not receive it. It would not worry me in the
least to leave you lying here upon the floor."

I did not believe this, but I did not stop to weigh the question
then; I was too much struck by a word he had used.

"Deal punishment?" I repeated. "Are you punishing me? Is that why I am
here?"

He laughed and held out his glass to mine.

"You enjoy being sarcastic," he observed. "Well, it gives a spice to
conversation, I own. Talk is apt to be dull without it."

For reply I struck the glass from his hand; it fell and shivered, and
he looked for the moment really distressed.

"I had rather you had struck me," he remarked, "for I have an answer
for an injury like that; but for a broken glass--" He sighed and
looked dolefully at the pieces on the floor.

Mortified and somewhat ashamed, I put down my own glass.

"You should not have exasperated me," I cried, and walked away beyond
temptation, to the other side of the room.

His spirits had received a dampener, but in a few minutes he seized
upon a cigar and began smoking; as the wreaths curled over his head he
began to talk, and this time it was on subjects totally foreign to
myself and even to himself. It was good talk; that I recognized,
though I hardly listened to what he said. I was asking myself what
time it had now got to be, and what was the meaning of my
incarceration, till my brain became weary and I could scarcely
distinguish the topic he discussed. But he kept on for all my seeming,
and indeed real, indifference, kept on hour after hour in a monologue
he endeavored to make interesting, and which probably would have been
so if the time and occasion had been fit for my enjoying it. As it
was, I had no ear for his choi