“No luck, Ricky?” his uncle asked him.
A somewhat hazy but still perfectly intelligent glance mocked him. “Not at cards, Lucius. But think of the adage!”
George knew that Sir Richard could carry his wine as well as any man of his acquaintance, but a certain reckless note in his voice alarmed him. He plucked at his sleeve, and said in a lowered tone: “I wish you will let me have a word with you!”
“Dear George—my very dear George!” said Sir Richard, amiably smiling. “You must be aware that I am not—quite—sober. No words to-night.”
“I shall come round to see you in the morning, then,” said George, forgetting that it was already morning.
“I shall have the devil of a head,” said Sir Richard.
He made his way out of the club, his curly-brimmed hat at an angle on his head, his ebony cane tucked under one arm. He declined the porter’s offer to call up a chair, remarking sweetly: “I am devilish drunk, and I shall walk.”
The porter grinned. He had seen many gentlemen in all the various stages of inebriety, and he did not think that Sir Richard, who spoke with only the faintest slurring of his words, and who walked with quite wonderful balance, was in very desperate straits. If he had not known Sir Richard well, he would not, he thought, have seen anything amiss with him, beyond his setting off in quite the wrong direction for St James’s Square. He felt constrained to call Sir Richard’s attention to this, but begged pardon when Sir Richard said: “I know. The dawn is calling me, however. I am going for a long, long walk.”
“Quite so, sir,” said the porter, and stepped back.
Sir Richard, his head swimming a little from sudden contact with the cool air, strolled aimlessly away in a northerly direction.