“Poor boy! You want to lie down a bit. I say, come and stretch, chez moi. You can smoke a cigarette and have a snooze if you like. It’s quiet there.”
He would have broken away, but she held his arm and called a voiture. It was exactly ten o’clock when they left the restaurant and descended to the Pension Pizzicato. Once in the open air the fumes of the wine affected him with sudden drowsiness.
“Look here,” he said, “I do believe I’m a bit squiffy. Perhaps I’d better lie down on your sofa for half an hour.”
“That’s a good boy. Come on.”
He remembered descending unsteadily from the voiture and stumbling up to her room. They met no one on the way. He threw himself on her divan and closed his eyes.
4.
When he opened them again she was bending over him. She wore a lilac peignoir that clothed her loosely. As he looked at her, surprised, she said:
“My dear boy, how’s your poor head? You know you’ve slept nearly two hours. And look who’s here,—Mr. Fetterstein. He came just a few minutes after we did. We’ve been chatting.”
Fetterstein was comfortably seated, smoking a huge cigar, and drinking a whiskey and soda. He grunted amiably to Hugh.
“Yey, boy! Some snorer too, hey, Mrs. B.? Well, feelin’ better?”