"Good morning," he said quietly. "Made a night of it, as you see; and overslept myself."
But beneath his quiet he was acutely aware of the contrast between his own dishevelled aspect, and Desmond's unobtrusive neatness and freshness.
"Hope I don't intrude," the latter apologised, smiling: but his keen eyes searched the other's face, and read tragedy there. "As you hadn't turned up by ten-thirty, my wife was afraid something might have gone wrong. So I came over to set her mind at rest!"
"Your wife? Why, of course! And I promised to be round by ten—ill-mannered cur that I am!" He sank wearily into his chair. "Truth is," he added in a changed tone, "I couldn't get a wink of sleep till near dawn; and then it came down on me like a sledge-hammer. You know the sort of thing."
Desmond nodded, and took a seat on the edge of the table.
"Are you often given that way?" he asked with seeming unconcern.
"Now and again."
"Ever been really bad with it?"
"Pretty bad. Why d'you ask?"
"Because from the looks of you, I should say it was wearing your nerves to fiddle-strings. Ever take anything for it?"