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"Graham!" said Clayton sharply.
"Yes." He stirred, but did not open his eyes.
"Graham! Wake up, boy."
Graham sat up suddenly and looked at him. The whites of his eyes
were red, but he had slept off the dinner wine. He was quite
himself.
"Better get to bed," his father suggested. "I'll want you early
to-morrow."
"What time, sir?"
He leaned forward and pressed a button beside the mantel-piece.
"What are you doing that for?"
"Ice water. Awfully thirsty."
"The servants have gone to bed. Go down and get it yourself."
Graham looked up at the tone. At his father's eyes, he looked away.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "Must have had too much champagne. Wasn't
much else to do, was there? Mother's parties - my God, what a
dreary lot!"
Clayton inspected the ice water carafe on the stand and found it
empty.
"I'll bring you some water from my room," he said. "And - I don't
want to see you this way again, Graham. When a man cannot take a
little wine at his own table without taking too much he fails to be
entirely a gentleman.


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