Crespin called weakly after him as he was leaving the room.
“I suppose—my wife—knows.”
Traherne evaded, as doctors sometimes must.
“She knows you slept here last night. I sent her a chit when we came in.”
“Came in, I supporting your staggering steps, I suppose,” Crespin said, with the sick attempt at humor that often comes with the stale after-fumes.
“We came in together,” Traherne said affectionately.
“O Lord,” Crespin told him, “you’re the real stuff, Traherne!”
“Of course I am—to you. Now I am off. So long!”
But he was not off just yet.
“I say,” Crespin pleaded anxiously, “can I have another drink?”