ffers the steps?" he laughed.

"Nothing to do with it," Dalrymple muttered. "Got my reasons--good
enough ones, too."

"Right!" George said. "Only don't leave me to myself until I've wet my
whistle."

And when the sleepy servant had come George asked him for some whiskey
and soda water. He talked of the Alstons, of the war, of anything to
tide the wait for the caraffe and the bottles and glasses; and during
that period Dalrymple's restlessness increased. Just what had he been
sneaking downstairs for in the middle of the night? George watched the
other's eyes drawn by the tray when the servant had set it down.

"Why did he bring two glasses?" Dalrymple asked, irritably.

"Oh," George said, carelessly, "I suppose he thought--naturally----Have
a biscuit, anyway."

George poured a drink and supped contentedly.

"Dry rations--biscuits," Dalrymple complained.

He fingered the caraffe.

"I've an idea--wedding--special occasion, and all that. Change my
mind--up here--one friendly drop----"

George watched the friendly drop expand to half a tumbler full, and he
observed that the hand that poured was not quite steady. It wouldn't be
long now before he would know whether or not Dalrymple's reformation was
merely a pose in public, a pose for Sylvia.

Dalrymple sighed, sat down, and talked quite pleasantly about the
horrors of Chaumont. After a time he refilled his glass, and repeated
the performance a number of times with diminishing intervals. George
smiled. A child could tell the other was breaking no extended
abstinence. He drifted from war to New York and his apparent success
with the house of Planter.

"Slavery, this office stuff!" he rattled on, "but good fun to get things
done, to climb up on shoulders of men--oh, no idea how many,
Morton--who're only good to push a pen or pound a typewriter. Of course,
you know, though. Done plenty of climbing yourself."

His enunciation suffered and his assurance strengthened as the caraffe
emptied. No extended abstinence, George reflected, but almost certainly
a very painful one of a few days.

"Am making money, Morton--a little, not much," he said, confidentially,
and with condescension. "Not enough by long shot to pay those beastly
notes I owe you. Know they're over due. Don't think I'd ever forget
that. Want to do right thing, Morton. You used hard words when I
borrowed that money, but forget, and all that. White of you to let me
have it, and I'll do right thing."

A