"Wait, Frank!" I yelled, too late.
She looked at the bottle, then me, with a strange expression: a little
pity--not patronizing--but mostly feminine understanding. "Soda pop? Of
course. You don't like alcohol, do you?"
"No." Gruffly.
Her eyes blinked rapidly, as though holding back tears. "I know what's
the matter with you; I _really_ know."
"There's nothing the matter with me that--"
"That beating this mess won't solve." We hadn't heard Mel enter. He
leaned casually against the door. "Terrific idea for a story."