No, there was something in him that would not give in--neither to the whiskey, nor the woman, nor even the music.
Even in the midst of his best music, it sat in the middle of him, this invisible black dog, and growled and waited, never to be cajoled.

He knew of its presence--and was a little uneasy.

For of course he _wanted_ to let himself go, to feel rosy and loving and all that.

But at the very thought, the black dog showed its teeth.
Still he kept the beast at bay--with all his will he kept himself as it were genial.

He wanted to melt and be rosy, happy.
He sipped his whiskey with gratification, he luxuriated in the presence of the landlady, very confident of the strength of her liking for him.
He glanced at her profile--that fine throw-back of her hostile head, wicked in the midst of her benevolence; that subtle, really very beautiful delicate curve of her nose, that moved him exactly like a piece of pure sound.