He hurried back to the revolving bookcase with the Encyclopedia, Roget’s “Thesaurus” and “Who’s Who” on its shelves, and cutglass and alcohol, alleviation and temptation, on its top, seized the tumbler he’d filled to the brim—the soda was dead, but that didn’t matter, he’d not put much soda in it. His lips were twitching a little as he lifted to them the stimulant they craved. All his being craved it—needed it perhaps. On the point of drinking, the rim to his mouth, Antony Crespin hesitated again, shuddered a little, and hurried to the open window. “No,” the man muttered, and pitched the liquid out of the casement. Antony Crespin, after a border “shindy,” had been decorated and mentioned in despatches, for less than that. His face had paled when he put the glass back in its place. As he was doing it Traherne came into the room.
“There!” Crespin sniggered weakly, “you think you’ve caught me!”
“Caught you?”
“Lushing,” Crespin persisted. “But I haven’t been. I threw the stuff out of the window. God knows I wanted it, but for Lucilla’s sake, I must keep all my wits about me.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and at that, and the illness in his eyes, Traherne watching him wondered if he ought not to prescribe it. But instead he said cheerfully, “Yes, if we can all do that, we may pull through yet.”
“Did you sleep?” Crespin asked.
“Not a wink. And you?”
“Dozed and woke again fifteen times in a minute,” Crespin told him. “A hellish night.”
“Have you any news of Mrs. Crespin?”
Crespin nodded. “But only this. She sent me this chit.” He pulled the scrap of note-paper from his pocket, and offered it to Traherne.
Traherne took it, and read it slowly aloud. “‘Have slept and am feeling better. Keep the flag flying.’ What pluck she has!” he exclaimed as he handed it back.