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."

He went out. When he came back, Graham was standing by the fire in
his pajamas, looking young and rather ashamed. Clayton had a flash
of those earlier days when he had come in to bid the boy good night,
and there had always been that last request for water which was to
postpone the final switching off of the light.

"I'm sorry, father."