“I suppose you want something to drink?”
Mr. Wolcott’s answer struck Beverly as being equally in character:—
“Yes,” he said, with a twinkle, “give me some champagne in a long glass with ice, if you think you can afford it; I can’t.”
No one stayed long, and by six o’clock the club, except for Beverly and the sleeping Lauriston, was again deserted. When the steward came in to draw the curtains and turn on the lights, Lauriston awoke and asked vaguely if it was time to go to Beck.
“I suppose so,” answered Beverly. “Everybody seems to have gone somewhere.”
“Then I must go too,” mused Lauriston, fumbling sleepily at his disordered necktie, and making a feeble attempt to smooth his hair.
“Oh, I wouldn’t run away and leave me,” suggested Beverly, “I’m all alone.” He wasn’t in the least anxious for Lauriston’s society, but for the public good he was willing to endure it. Lauriston’s nap hadn’t proved as beneficial as it might have; the fellow was in no condition to go to Beck and talk to people.
“Sorry, old man. Can’t stay. Got to find my mothers and sisters, and give them ‘Morial tickets.” He searched his pockets, and drew out an envelope. Then he arose laboriously from the divan, and, standing before Beverly, said something that sounded like “Delookawrite.” Beverly adjusted his glasses:—
“No, candidly, you don’t look all right,” he declared, “and if you’re going out to hunt for your mother and sisters, I sincerely trust you won’t find them.” Lauriston stared stupidly at the tickets in his hand.
“Got to havvem. Promised,” he muttered. Beverly gently extracted the tickets from his fingers.