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 sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance seemed to crowd the room. "Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you." He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe. "Very pleasant, little drop like this--night cap on the quiet. But not often." His content sought expression in a smile. "Dolly's off the hootch." George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart. "May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you call it?" Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder. "Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh." "I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?" Dalrymple waved his glass. "Lady of my heart--surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till she lets it loose." As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words: "Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly." Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply: "What the devil you doing, Morton?"