"None of your damned business. What do you mean by—"
"I am your friend, George," broke in Simmy earnestly. "I can see now that you've had a drink or two, and you—"
"I'm as sober as you are!"
"More so, I fear. I've had champagne. You—"
"I am not drunk all of the time, you know," snarled George.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Simmy cheerfully.
"I hate the stuff,—hate it worse than anything on earth except being sober. Good night, Simmy," he broke off abruptly.
"That dance in there won't be over before three o'clock," said Simmy shrewdly. "You're in for a long wait, my lad."
George groaned. "Good Lord, is it—is it a dance? The papers said it was a dinner for Lord and Lady—"
"Better come along with me, George," interrupted Simmy quietly. "I'm going down to Anne's. She has sent for me. It's the end, I fancy. That's where you ought to be to-night, Tresslyn. She needs you. Come—"