But at “Gentlemen, the King,” as Agnew lifted his glass, Major Crespin, swaying a little on his feet, clutched at the back of the chair, hiccuped painfully, looked about him with a bleary smile, and collapsed half onto his chair, half onto the table.
There was nothing to be hoped then. There was nothing that could be done.
No more need be said.
It was final.
And now it was the next morning, that terrible, pitiless next morning that always comes, and always must, unless God grants the mercy of Death before the dawn.
It was the next morning and Antony Crespin, twitching and sick, lay wide awake on Traherne’s bed.
He was suffering exquisite bodily torture. Traherne had done what he could. But that debt has to be paid. And it’s an I.O.U. that no friend’s purse can take up. The debtor himself has to pay.
But his mental torment was more than his quivering of fevered flesh and frightened trembling of sick, circling stomach. And his sorrow and shame of spirit were more than his wife’s were, lying tearless, face down on her own bed. And Doctor Traherne—glass in hand—sensed that it was so, and pitied Crespin even more than he pitied Lucilla, even more than he pitied unconscious, happy Iris and Ronald.
But an ounce of help is worth more than a pound of pity any day—and most especially is this true “the next morning.” Traherne slid his strong arm carefully under Crespin’s head, and held the glass deftly to his mouth. The champagne was vintage and extra sec.