Late that night, Mr. George Tresslyn came upon Simmy Dodge in the buffet at the Plaza.
"Well, you missed it," he said thickly. His high hat was set far back on his head and his face was flushed.
"Come over here in the corner," said Simmy, with discernment, "and for heaven's sake don't talk above a whisper."
"Whisper?" said George, annoyed. "What do I want to whisper for? I don't want to whisper, Simmy. I never whisper. I hate to hear people whisper. I refuse to whisper to anybody."
Simmy took him by the arm and led him to a table in a corner remote from others that were occupied.
"Maybe you'd rather go for a drive in the Park," he said engagingly.
"Nonsense! I've been driven all day, Simmy. I don't want to be driven any more. I'm tired, that's what's the matter with me. Dog-tired, understand? Have a drink? Here, boy!"
"Thanks, George, I don't care for a drink. No, not for me, thank you. Strictly on the wagon, you know. Better let it alone yourself. Take my advice, George. You're not a drinking man and you can't stand it."
George glowered at him for a moment, and then let his eyes fall. "Guess you're right, Simmy. I've had enough. Never mind, waiter. First time I've been like this in a mighty long time, Simmy. But don't think I'm celebrating, because I ain't. I'm drowning something, that's all." He was almost in tears by this time. "I can't help thinking about her standin' there beside that old—Oh, Lord! I can't talk about it."
"That's right," said Simmy, persuasively. "I wouldn't if I were you. Come along with me. I'll walk home with you, George. A good night's rest will put—"