"I can get you another, sir," said the porter.
"No—that one," ordered Ross.
Behind the returning porter came Theresa. "Can't I do something for you, dear? Rub your head, or fix the pillows?"
Ross did not look at her. "Do, please—fix the pillows," he said. "Then if I can sleep a little, I'll be all right, and will soon rejoin you."
"Can't I fix your drink for you?" she asked, putting her hand on the bottle.
Ross restrained an impulse to snatch it away from her. "Thanks, no—dear," he answered. "I've decided to swear off—with you. Is it a go?"
She laughed. "Silly!" she murmured, bending and kissing him. "If you wish."
"That settles it," said Ross, with a forced, pained smile. "We'll neither of us touch it. I was getting into the habit of taking too much—not really too much—but—Oh, you understand."
"That's the way father feels about it," said Theresa, laughing. "We never drink at home—except mother when she has a spell, and has to be kept up on brandy."
Ross threw his arm up to hide his face. "Let me sleep, do," he said gently.