For some reason this joie de vivre caused an unfavorable reaction in Apollo. Certainly not prudishness at this late stage, Apollo decided. Probably resentment that Peotr had done as he’d pleased without regard for practicality or decorum, while he himself had decided against pursuing his desire for what now appeared totally incomprehensible reasons. The last four days of continuous drinking and mouthing insincere pleasantries had done nothing to improve his disposition. The net result had made him extremely touchy. “Tone it down, will you,” Apollo sullenly retorted as Peotr unpacked his saddlebag in the compartment they shared. No rude retort could dispel Peotr’s ebullient mood. He only turned and grinned at his roommate sprawled on the opposite sofa. “Sore head, Apollo?” Peotr commiserated. “Too much wine, women, and song?” Every line of Apollo spoke of dissipation. The black mountain clothes he preferred, oriental and rich, were vaguely slovenly; his skin seemed pallid under the sun-glazed surface; his fine eyes were half-lidded over a world-weary ennui; his mouth insolent and self-indulgent.
