"Oh--" she cried involuntarily.

His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were
blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably.

"Gordon," she murmured, "we'll sit down; I want to sit down."

They were nearly in mid-floor, but she had seen two men start toward
her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon's
limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut,
her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears.

She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down
heavily beside her.

"Well," he began, staring at her unsteadily, "I certainly am glad to
see you, Edith."

She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was
immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of
intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her
feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first
time she was seized with a new feeling--an unutterable horror.

"Gordon," she said accusingly and almost crying, "you look like the
devil."

He nodded, "I've had trouble, Edith."

"Trouble?"