In spite of himself, in spite of his despair—it was almost absolute despair this time—the wine tasted good. Champagne usually does taste good to those who relish it. Perhaps it stands as firmest friend and kindest nurse to the very desperately seasick, but its second-best play of its magic trick probably is made “the next morning.”
Crespin drained the glass, and even put up a trembling hand to tilt it farther and longer that he should miss no last drop. And he looked around to see where the bottle was.
There was no bottle in sight.
“You’ve had it all, old chap,” Traherne told him, “a pint of it. Now try to rest a bit.”
“Rest!” Crespin moaned.
“Lie perfectly still. That will help. I won’t be long.”
“You’re not going to leave me!”
“Must,” Traherne told him, pulling the chick a little closer. “Sorry, but must. I’ve something to see to that won’t keep. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I’ll tell Abdul what to do for you, and to see that you’re not disturbed.”
“Traherne, you must not leave me.” There’s never a time so miserable that the sound and sight of a friend—the right friend—cannot ease it.
“Look here,” Traherne said with his hand on the other’s arm, “I must. I wouldn’t, if any one else could do what I’ve got to, but no one can. I must attend to it myself, and I must attend to it now. Keep quiet—that will help you most. And I’ll get back as soon as I can.”