'I'm not drinking brandy,' she replied, and she sprinkled the last
drops of her liqueur over his face. He gave an odd squeal. She sat
looking at him, as if indifferent.

'Pussum, why do you do that?' he cried in panic. He gave Gerald the
impression that he was terrified of her, and that he loved his terror.
He seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and
extract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a
strange fool, and yet piquant.

'But Pussum,' said another man, in a very small, quick Eton voice, 'you
promised not to hurt him.'

'I haven't hurt him,' she answered.

'What will you drink?' the young man asked. He was dark, and
smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour.

'I don't like porter, Maxim,' she replied.

'You must ask for champagne,' came the whispering, gentlemanly voice of
the other.

Gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him.

'Shall we have champagne?' he asked, laughing.

'Yes please, dwy,' she lisped childishly.

Gerald watched her eating the oysters. She was delicate and finicking