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"Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he was
French, and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very
intoxicated. I don't want you to come home with him."
"Mother, he's all right! Please don't worry about -"
"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise me
not to come home with him."
"I'll take care of it, mother...."
"I don't want you to come home with him."
"All right, mother. Good-by."
"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you."
Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it
up. Her face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was
stretched asleep out in a bedroom up-stairs, while the dinner-party
below was proceeding lamely toward conclusion.
The hour's drive had sobered him somewhat – his arrival was
merely hilarious – and Paula hoped that the evening was not spoiled,
after all, but two imprudent cocktails before dinner completed the
disaster. He talked boisterously and somewhat offensively to the
party at large for fifteen minutes, and then slid silently under the
table; like a man in an old print – but, unlike an old print, it was
rather horrible without being at all quaint. None of the young girls
present remarked upon the incident – it seemed to merit only silence.
His uncle and two other men carried him up-stairs, and it was just
after this that Paula was called to the phone.
An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through
which he perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert
standing by the door.
"...I said are you better?"
"What?"
"Do you feel better, old man?"
"Terrible," said Anson.
"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold
it down, it'll do you good to sleep."
With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up.
"I'm all right," he said dully.
"Take it easy."
"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go down-stairs."
"Oh, no-"