“If it will serve you in the least, I shall be glad to remain,” he assured her, as he resumed his seat.
After all, he did not know but that it was best for him to stay. Too well he knew that to every sleep like this there is an awakening that needs a moderator.
Marrion Latham was a tall, splendid-looking man, with a proud, commanding manner. His intimates styled him, “The Conqueror.” He had always had a handsome annuity besides the income he realized from his plays. He had enough money to make the hard world soft, win favors, gild reputation, and enable one to ride instead of walk through life; consequently, he had self-indulgent habits, and was destitute of those qualities of self-endurance and self-control that hard work and poverty teach best. Yet he had that high sense of honor which is most necessary to such an imaginative, passionate and self-willed nature as he possessed.
While he sat there quietly, Robert became restless. The stupor was wearing off, and the dreaded awakening came.
“May I trouble you for a glass of water?” was Marrion’s request, that would absent Mrs. Milburn for awhile.
Robert made a ferocious movement, and began thumping his head.
“Wheels in it,” he muttered.
“Be quiet, she does not suspect you,” Marrion whispered.
Cherokee came back to find her husband in the delirious throes of his spree. With sweet and tender solicitude, she asked:
“Do you feel better, dear?”