“It’s tough,” said Jeremy. “It’s a tough thing to do. A woman’s supposed to drink, not because she likes it, but because it’s the fashion or because she needs bucking up. Very well. It’s the fashion to drink a cocktail before your dinner. To that fashion women subscribe—many, perhaps, cheerfully, but that’s their business. If they make a meal of it—ask for a second helping—the assumption or fiction that they’re following a fashion is gone and they’re merely advertising an appetite which isn’t particularly becoming to a man, but actually degrades a woman whoever she is.” “I’m much obliged,” said Eve. “‘Tough’ and ‘degraded.’ I am a topper, aren’t I? I suppose you realize that this is 1930.” “If you mean I’m old-fashioned, I admit it. I don’t like to see a girl drink. But that’s beside the point. I mayn’t like the fashion, but I don’t shout about it. You can’t curse anyone for toeing the line. But I think it’s a thousand pities to overstep it.” Eve smote upon the table with the flat of her pretty hand. “You don’t seem able to see,” she cried, “that you’re blowing a whole gale about nothing at all—_nothing_. Because there’s a cocktail going spare and I’m fool enough to give it a home, d’you seriously suggest that I shall be branded as a sot? One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard.” “That’s better,” said Jeremy, smiling. “That’s the way to talk. And of course I don’t, sweetheart. I’m not such a fool. But . . . You are so attractive, Eve, so—so dazzling, you set such a very high standard of sweetness that when you do something that brings us down to earth we’ve got such a long way to fall. A taste for liquor seems so much worse in you——” “But I haven’t a taste for liquor. I hate it. I don’t care whether I drink a cocktail or not. Yes, I do. I’d much rather drink water.” “I know you would,” cried Broke; “but no one else does. And when, to put it plainly, you have a couple, then——” “Everyone knows I don’t drink.” “But you _do_ . . . you _are_ . . . you’re inviting attention to the fact. Thoughtlessly, idly, of course. You don’t care a damn about liquor: but by having a second cocktail you’re declaring your liking for drink.” “I don’t agree,” said Eve, “but supposing I am. Why shouldn’t I like my liquor?” “I’ve tried to point out,” said Jeremy wearily, “that a taste for liquor doesn’t become you. But I think in your heart you know that. What you won’t see is that to drink two cocktails is tough.” “I confess I can’t,” said Eve. “What’s more, I propose to drink two more to-night.” “Look here,” said Broke, deliberately ignoring the glove. “It used to be the fashion to wear short skirts, usedn’t it? Very well. You subscribed to the fashion and wore them, too. But you didn’t exaggerate that fashion—turn out in a dress that stopped half-way to your knees, did you?” “What d’you think?” said his wife. “Some girls did.” “Some.” “Exactly,” cried Broke. “And because they went beyond the dictates of Fashion, they were properly judged to be tough.”