She passed a hand over her eyes wearily. Then, with a visible effort, she straightened. She seemed to throw off her momentary ill feeling instantly. She smiled at Channing and was her normal self in less than a minute.
"What is it?" she asked. "Do you feel funny, too?"
"I do!" he said. "I don't want that beer. I want to snooze."
"When Channing would prefer snoozing to boozing, he is sick," she said. "Come on, fellow, take me home."
Slowly they walked down the long hallway. They said nothing. Arm in arm they went, and when they reached Arden's door, their goodnight kiss lacked enthusiasm. "See you in the morning," said Don.
Arden looked at him. "That mug was a little flat. We'll try it again—tomorrow or next week."
Don Channing's night sleep was broken by dreams. He was warm. His dreams depicted him in a warm, airless chamber, and he was forced to breathe that same stale air again and again. He awoke in a hot sweat, weak and feeling—well, lousy!
He dressed carelessly. He shaved hit-or-miss. His morning coffee tasted flat and sour. He left the apartment in a bad mood, and bumped into Arden at the corner of the hall.
"Hello," she said. "I feel rotten. But you have improved. Or is that passionate breathing just a lack of fresh air?"