For--perhaps this was partly the effect of the unrelenting heat--her insipid coquetries had begun to exasperate me more and more. I became increasingly petulant when I was commanded to "tiss eentie finger" and to look into the little scalene triangles of her eyes and say that I loved her. Presently, I am afraid, I began to cause her many tears. We wrangled frequently. I was "near," I was "close," I did not treat her as other engaged girls were treated, I never took her anywhere except for a bus ride, or to a cheap theatre once in a blue moon. Then one day, without warning, she brought it up against me that I had "given her the slip" that afternoon on Wimbledon Common. Of this I was technically so innocent, but morally so entirely guilty, that I broke out into anger, and there was a scene. "I know some girls are younger and prettier than I am," she broke out, with unbridled temper, "but you _did_ ask me to marry you after all." "So I did," I admitted, in a tone that made her flame. "Yes," she cried shrilly. "And not only that--I've seen you looking at Louie Causton too." "Oh?" I said, noting with relief that her jealousy was not specially of Evie. "Well, there are one or two pleasing points about her." "And she was the only one you danced with at the party." "Before I asked you to marry me?" "And me--you've never _once_ taken me to a dance, though I've _seen_ Rachel Levey offer you tickets." "Perhaps you've seen me look at Miss Levey too?" "And you never spoke to me, and sat behind the books with Louie." "Well, there only remains one other suggestion for you to make." And so on. It was degrading in the extreme. But I was sufficiently punished for it later, when she lay with her head on my breast, sobbing out phrases of contrition for her vindictive temper and supplication for pardon. All, all gone now was the hour of exaltation in which I had heard the nightingale sing and had felt my glowing girl's breast heaving against my own. I was a hungry, desperate man, living a life against which I knew I should not be able to bear up indefinitely, and already glancing into the public-house as I entered by my side door and beginning to wonder whether they were not wiser than I who made use of the anodyne of drink. Why not drink, and forget for at least an hour? And one night, meeting Mackie again, and having eaten little, I did succumb, and for the first time in my life got drunk. I got drunk at his expense. He had heard the news of Louie Causton, and wanted to talk about it. I, like a cur, let him.... I broke away from him at last, but not until my loosened tongue had said I know not what.