of mind, as though
the icily cold liquid, as she slowly absorbed it through the straw,
was freezing her intelligence. She could not for a few moments
understand what Dale was whispering at her ear.

"Between you and me and the post, Mav"--And he told her that,
according to his opinion, all these women parading up and down were no
better than they ought to be. They were of course, socially, much
higher than the common women of the streets, but he considered them to
be, morally, on the same level: although they did not accost
strangers, they were all willing to scrape acquaintance with any one
who looked as if he had money in his pocket. "Yes, London's a bit of
an eye-opener, old girl." Then he laughed behind his hand, and said
that she was probably the only respectable woman and virtuous wife in
the whole of the theater.

Mavis, although trying to listen, answered at random.

"Will, I do believe there's spirits in this stuff--yes, and strong
spirits too."

"Oh, bosh. It's just a refresher. Mostly crushed ice, and a few drops
of sirup."

Mavis, however, was quite correct. At the bottom of the glass, and
below the light sirupy mixture, there lurked liqueurs of which the
potency was only rendered doubtful because of their low temperature.
The beginning of the long drink was absolutely delicious, so soothing
and so cooling; but at the end of it was as if one had filled one's
self with insidious quick-running flame.

Mavis put down her empty tumbler, and looked at it reproachfully.

"Will, it has made me come over all funny. My head's swimming."

When they got back to their seats and were watching the ballet, he too
felt the consequences of guileless straw-sucking; but with him the
after effects were entirely pleasurable. He felt invigorated,
peaceful, massively grand.

He sat placidly enjoying the beauty of the scene, the grace of the
dancers, the vibrations of the music. The stage was dark at first, and
one could merely make out that it pictured a wildly-imagined grove in
th

William Babington Maxwell (18661938) was a British novelist. He was a son of novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Though nearly 50 years old at the outbreak of the First World War, he was accepted as a lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers and served in France until 1917.

Cyrus Townsend Brady (December 20, 1861 January 24, 1920) was a journalist, historian and adventure writer. His most well-known work is Indian Fights and Fighters. He was born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania, and graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1883. He was also a deacon in the Episcopal church. His first wife was Clarissa Guthrie, who died in 1890. His second wife was Mary Barrett.

Rebecca Sophia Clarke (1833-1906), also known as Sophie May, was an American author of childrens fiction. Using her nieces and nephews as inspiration, she wrote realistic stories about children. She wrote 45 books between 1860 and 1903. The most popular being the Little Prudy books. She lived most of her life in her native town of Norridgewock, Maine, where she lived out her life with her sister, who was also a successful author.