The other protested jealously at his going; but Wint said he must. Then, to Routt: “Come upstairs.”
“Have you got a room?” Routt asked, amazed; and Wint said:
“Yes.” And he went toward the stair. Routt followed him.
Mrs. Moody had given Wint that same dingy room in which he had spent the night of his election. They went there, and Wint bade Routt sit down. Routt sat on the bed; Wint stood indolently by the door. Routt exclaimed at once:
“Wint, I want you to know this wasn’t my doing. You could have knocked me flat. I’m sorry as hell.”
“Of course,” Wint agreed.
“I want to know if there isn’t some way we can fix it up,” Routt urged. “There must be something we can do. Some damned thing.”
“There’s nothing to fix,” Wint told him.
“Nothing to fix? Good God!” Routt shifted his position, reached into his pocket. “My Lord, but I’m knocked out. Shaky. I’ve got to have a drink. Mind?”
“Go ahead.”