“You’d like a drink!,” she exclaimed.
“Is that the differentia of the human man?” he laughed.
There was a clink of glasses outside, and she returned with a bottle of brandy and a box of cigars. While he was mixing himself a drink, she slipped with apparent aimlessness behind him, and he heard something drop. When he looked round, the signed photograph of John Gaymer had disappeared, and she was holding out a tumbler for him to fill.
“I’m not going to give you brandy,” he said, picking up the syphon of soda-water.
“Just a little! I’m so tired.”
“Not a drop! If you start drinking brandy at nineteen—because you’re tired—, where d’you think you’ll be at thirty?”
“I don’t much care!” she answered. “I believe those cigars are quite good. Won’t you try one?”
“Not if you’re going to sleep in this room, thanks,” he answered.
“I don’t mind it—honestly,” she said.
“As a matter of fact I’ve been smoking all day.”