She bolted awake in the large bed which was awash in a sea of silks, furs, and red curtains. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. In the mean time, let me advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be as useless as vexatious.
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