Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. My father died a year ago, by the way. I have it about me.
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