He accepted a drink, more for the purpose of considering Peyton Morris,
moodily abstracted by the table, than for itself. It seemed to Lee that
the young man had actually aged since the cocktail party at his house,
earlier in the evening. Peyton's mouth was hard and sullen; his brow
was corrugated. "We're going home," Lee told him; "and it seemed to me
that an hour ago Claire was tired."
"She didn't tell me," Peyton responded punctiliously; "and certainly if
she's low we'll go too." He rose promptly, and, with his outer garb,
accompanied Lee Randon. His step was uncertain, and Lee put a hand
under his elbow. "Liquored?" he asked casually.
"Not in my brain," Peyton Morris returned: "it seems like I could never
get drunk again; but my dam' feet are all over the place. Thanks for
hanging on to me: I have an idea you are going to drop me pretty
quickly."
"I don't want to question you," Randon said, "or in any way force a
confidence, but, Peyton, in addition to the relationship, I am
exceptionally fond of Claire; and, since helping you is practically the
same thing as helping her--"
"I wish to Christ I had been sunk in the North Sea," Morris broke in
bitterly.
They were up the stairs and standing on the emptied floor of an
intermission. Fanny, prepared to leave, was gazing about for him.
"You've been an age," she cried to Lee; "and, Peyton, Claire is at last
looking for you; although she'd kill me for saying it.
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