‘You don’t put your arms roun’ me,’ he growled.

So I deposited the candle on the floor, and put my arms round his neck, standing on tip-toe, and kissed him again.

He went past me, staggering and growling, into the sitting-room at the end of the passage, and furiously banged down the lid of the piano, so that every cord in it jangled deafeningly.

‘Light the lamp,’ he called out.

‘In one second,’ I said.

I locked the outer door on the inside, slipped the key into my pocket, and picked up the candle.

‘What were you doing out there?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing,’ I said.  ‘I had to pick the candle up.’

He seized my hat from the table and threw it to the floor.  Then he sat down.

‘Nex’ time,’ he remarked, ‘you’ll know better’n to keep me waiting.’

I lighted a lamp.

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.  ‘Won’t you go to bed?’

‘I shall go to bed when I want,’ he answered.  ’I’m thirsty.  In the cupboard you’ll see a bottle.  I’ll trouble you to give it me, with a glass and some water.’

‘This cupboard?’ I said questioningly, opening a cupboard papered to match the rest of the wall.

‘Yes.’

‘But surely you can’t be thirsty, Diaz?’ I protested.

‘Must I repea’ wha’ I said?’ he glared at me.  ’I’m thirsty.  Give me the bottle.’

I took out the bottle nearest to hand.  It was of a dark green colour, and labelled ‘Extrait d’Absinthe.  Pernod fils.’

‘Not this one, Diaz?’

‘Yes,’ he insisted.  ‘Give it me.  And get a glass and some water.’

‘No,’ I said firmly.

‘Wha’?  You won’t give it me?’

‘No.’

He jumped up recklessly and faced me.  His hat fell off the back of his head.

‘Give me that bottle!’

His breath poisoned the room.

I retreated in the direction of the window, and put my hand on the knob.

‘No,’ I said.

He sprang at me, but not before I had opened the window and thrown out the bottle.  I heard it fall in the roadway with a crash and scattering of glass.  Happily it had harmed no one.  Diaz was momentarily checked.  He hesitated.  I eyed him as steadily as I could, closing the while the window behind me with my right hand.

‘He may try to kill me,’ I thought.

My heart was thudding against my dress, not from fear, but from excitement.  My situation seemed impossible to me, utterly passing belief.  Yesterday I had been a staid spinster, attended by a maid, in a hotel of impeccable propriety.  Today I had locked myself up alone with a riotous drunkard in a vile flat in a notorious Parisian street.  Was I mad?  What force, secret and powerful, had urged me on?...  And there was the foul drunkard, with clenched hands and fiery eyes, undecided whether or not to murder me.  And I waited.

He moved away, inarticulately grumbling, and resumed with difficulty his hat.