“I—can't.”
Atherton rose and joined him, and for a moment his hand rested on the younger man's shoulder.
“I'm sorry—dashed sorry,” he murmured. “Gee!” he added with a half shy, half humorous glance, wiping his forehead frankly, “I'd rather face a grizzly than do that again. Leslie keeps telling me that my habit of butting in will land me in the family vault before my time.”
Craven smiled wryly.
“It's all right. I'm grateful—really. But I must hoe my own row.”
The American swung irresolutely on his heels.
“That's so, that's so,” he agreed reluctantly. “Oh damn it all,” he burst out, “have a drink!” and going back to the table he pounded in the stopper of a soda-water-bottle savagely.
Craven laughed constrainedly as he tilted the whisky into a glass.
“Universal panacea,” he said a little bitterly, “but it's not my method of oblivion.”
He put the peg tumbler down with a smothered sigh.