The waiter murmured that it was trifle.
"No, I don't want any." She made a wretched pun, and told him to pass her the cigarettes. The box was a silver one that belonged to the sick man; the boy winced to see her careless hand thrust in it. He wondered what the waiter thought of her, wondered that his father wasn't ashamed—and knew a gust of self-reproach for condemning him to-night. A lump rose suddenly in his throat, his eyeballs pricked; he stared hard at the fire in a struggle to keep back the tears that were starting.... To his shame he felt one trickling down his cheek.
"Don't you smoke?" asked the woman.
"Not now," he muttered, and knew that his voice had betrayed him.
She turned to him surprised. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," he said angrily; "what should there be?"
In the road, a piano-organ reeled out a cadenza, and then stopped short. After the sharp silence that ensued, the roll of the traffic seemed to fill the room. The cork popped, and he drank his wine at a draught.
"Go on."
"I don't want any more."
"Sure?" She tilted her glass. "Well, here's to Temperance, and down with champagne!"