“You looked great with the whole business on, but this fluffy thing—­”

He leaned across the table and placing his hand on her bare shoulder, drew his fingers voluptuously down the arm.  Virginia started back, feeling repulsion and disgust even at his touch.

“Oh!  What’s the matter?” he exclaimed sarcastically.  “Is there anything wrong in a man telling his wife she’s pretty?  Is there?”

She remained silent and, frowning, he repeated his question: 

“Is there?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Then why do you want to quarrel with me?”

“I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

“Then we’re friends, are we?”

“Yes.”

Holding out an unsteady hand, he said: 

“Then shake hands on it.”

She made no response and he said again more commandingly: 

“Come on now—­shake hands on it.”

Still she made no move.

“If you don’t want to quarrel,” he said warningly, “shake hands on it.”

Hesitatingly she put out her hand, which he immediately grasped.

“Good!” he exclaimed, rising.  “And now let’s kiss and make up!”

Virginia started up at the same time, and again turned to go to her own room.  But he still had hold of her hand and she could not withdraw it.  Tired out by the unequal struggle, nervous and almost in tears, she tried in vain to release herself: 

“I tell you I want to go,” she cried impatiently.

But he merely laughed at her puny efforts.  Soothingly he exclaimed: 

“Let’s kiss and make up!  Come on now, kiss me, and that’ll show we’re friends.”

“I can’t,” she said, keeping her face averted.

“Can’t—­why?”

“For one thing,” she retorted angrily, “the odor of stale wine and whiskey isn’t pleasant.”

“Is there any other reason?” he demanded.

“There is—­and a very important one.  I don’t want to kiss you.”

“That means you don’t love me.  Is that it?”

For a moment she made no answer, but looked him full in the face, her eyes blazing with scorn and anger.  Then she spoke and raising her voice until it rang with all the anger and bitterness there was pent up in her heart she cried: 

“I love the man I married—­love him with all my heart and soul and he loves me!  But you are not the man I married; you are another man.  You are a stranger, a man inflamed with liquor, a man who comes and talks to me of love when it isn’t love at all, a man whose every protestation of love is an insult.  That’s the man you are and I hate him—­I hate him—!”

Staggered by her vehemence, intimidated for a moment by her angry outburst, Stafford let go her hand.  Quick to profit by it, Virginia turned, but before she could make a step, he had caught her again by the arm.

“So you hate me, do you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I do!” she cried.  “And now will you let me go?”