n, as you'd call it, in this place and at this hour, because I
see you're not ready. I thought you were sober. Now I see my mistake,
and now, I don't know _how_ to talk to you. I don't know how to begin!
I've never tasted the stuff myself--not even a glass of wine has ever
passed my lips, and my mother, Crabbe, used to make home-made wine and
give it to us--all but me. I wouldn't taste it. If I understood the
fascination of it, if I could follow the process, if I could sympathize
at all with you, then I might appreciate the difficulty and realize the
force of the temptation. But I can't! Other vices, take theft or
treachery, or cowardice, or insubordination; the seed of hatred
suffered to grow till the black Death Flower of Murder be born;
covetousness, sins of temper, all these I understand. And in some
degree those other temptations to which you have alluded."

A slight wave of colour surged in the young minister's cheeks. Crabbe
was apparently beyond impressing. He sat and whistled, looking wisely
at his nails. The loss of the whisky did not trouble him, for he
remembered where he had a second bottle hidden, and a small quantity
yet remained at the bottom of the tumbler, unnoticed by Ringfield. But
presently he broke out again.

"As for women," he cried thickly, as if he had not heard the other's
latest speech. "I've had enough of them, too much, as I said before.
You be warned, Ringfield! You keep out of trouble! I wouldn't swear
that I did not take to drink on account of them, and then, look
here--the trouble followed me out to this country, even to St. Ignace,
even to this hut and hole. What d'ye think of that?"

"Why, who is there here?" exclaimed Ringfield, but as he spoke he had a
vision; the foolish wife of Poussette seemed to come along the path,
chanting as she came some minor French refrain and tapping at the
uncared for window as she passed. She might have been attractive once,
and Crabbe was not a very young man now. Some graces she must have
had; a way of catching at the side of her skirt, suggesting a curtsy;
plenty of fair hair and a child's smile playing at the corners of her
mouth--not so foolish then. But wise or foolish, she had been another
man's wife, unless he had encountered her in her maiden days, which
seemed improbable.

"I cannot think," went on Ringfield, striving to shut this vision out,
"how women, any woman, plain or fair, sane or mad, could bring herself
to care