God knew he did!  His throat was like a furnace flue, his mouth held the taste of leather.  But for that thirst, indeed, he could hardly have found the energy to aid her efforts and lurch upon an elbow.  A white-hot lancet pierced his wound, and though he locked his teeth against it a groan forced out between them.  The woman cried out at the rapid ebb of colour from his face.

“But you are suffering!”

He forced a grey smile.  “It is nothing,” he whispered hoarsely—­“it will pass.  If you please—­that drink——­”

She put a knee behind his shoulders for support, and he rested his head back upon it and drank deep from the glass which she held to his lips.  Nectar of Olympus was never more divine than that deep draught of brandy and soda.  He thought he quaffed Life itself in its distilled quintessence, its pure elixir.  His look of gratitude had almost the spirit and the vigour of himself renewed.

“My thanks, mademoiselle...”

“Your thanks!”—­she laughed with indulgent scorn—­“your thanks to me!”

He offered to rise, but was restrained by kindly hands.

“No:  rest there a little longer, give yourself a little time before you try to get up.”

“But I shall tire you...”

“No.  And if you did, what of that?  It seems to me, my friend, I owe to you my life.”

“To me it seems you do,” he agreed.  “But such a debt is always the first to be forgotten, is it not?”

“You reproach me?”

“No, mademoiselle; not you, but the hearts of men...  We are all very much alike, I think.”

“No,” the woman insisted:  “you do reproach me.  In your heart you have said:  ’She has forgotten that, but for me, she would have been dead long years ago.  This service, too, she will presently forget.’  But you are wrong, my friend.  It is true, the years between had made that other time a little vague with old remoteness in my memory; but to-night has brought it all back and—­a renewed memory never fades.”

“So one is told.  But trust self-interest at need to black it out.”

“You have no faith in me!” she said bitterly.

Lanyard gave her a weary smile.  “Why should I not?  And as for that:  Why should I have faith in you, Liane?  Our ways run leagues apart.”

“They can be one.”

She met his perplexed stare with an emphatic nod, with eyes that he could have sworn were abrim with tenderness.  He shook his head as if to shake off a ridiculous plaguing notion, and grinned broadly.  “That was a drink!” he declared.  “I assure you, it was too much for my elderly head.  Let me up.”

The cruel agony stabbed his side again and again as he—­not unaided—­got upon his feet; and though he managed to gulp down his groans, no grinding of his teeth could mitigate his recurrent pallor or the pained contractions of his eyes.  Furthermore, he wavered when he tried to walk, and was glad to subside into a chair to which the woman guided him.  Then she fetched him another brandy and soda, put a lighted cigarette between his lips, picked up a chair for herself, and sat down, so close to him that their elbows almost touched.