It was Axe's greatest delight that the more intoxicated people became, the harder they denied being such.
Rose Knightley was, joyfully so, no exception. Axe had never seen her quite this far gone, but could never pass up the opportunity to rag, and rag endlessly.
"Must I?" he protested, which was a testament to his wonderful skill as an actor, because while he was pouting and looking altogether put-out, he was fighting very hard against the twitching upturns of his lips. Instead, he sighed once more, heavily this time, and slumped his shoulders.
Bon! He was certainly in the wrong profession. Axe deserved one—what was it they were called? Ah, yes—un César.
All the while appearing to contemplate this dilemma, he subtly inched backwards as Rose continued to use his neck and shoulders as an anchor for her swaying self, so she was forced to either lean very far forward, or hobble along with him on her unsteady-appearing feet.
"Very well," said Axe at long last, as if it was the greatest of chores and he the most unwilling, disinterested of participants, extending his hands helplessly (all the better to catch her with, should she not wise up to what he was doing and steady herself). "If I must."
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