A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. You disgust me. . In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. The perfume was the only one she ever used. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. You'll be wasting his time.
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