He did not stagger in the least. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The man’s as obstinate as a mule. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear.
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