The expression of disgust that wrinkled the placid face of the Immaculate as the half-empty flask went back to its place, was pathetic—but I wouldn't have given him a drop to have saved his life.
I turned on him again.
“Do you think it would be possible to get a vehicle of any kind to take me where I am to sleep?”
“I think so, sir.” His self-control was admirable.
“Well, will you please do it?”
“A sleigh has already been ordered, sir.” This came through tightly closed lips.
“All right. Now down which aisle is the entrance to the platform?”
“This way, sir.” The highest glacier on Mont Blanc couldn't have been colder or more impassive.
Just here a calming thought wedged itself into my brain-storm. These patient, long-suffering people were not to blame; many of them had come several miles through the storm to hear me speak and were entitled to the best that was in me. To vent upon them my spent steam because—No, that was impossible.
“Hold on, my friend,” I said, “stop where you are, let me pull myself together. This isn't their fault—” We were passing behind the screen hiding the little stage.