“Here, let us fill our glasses, and drink to the jolly time that is coming for us,” said O'Shea, with all his native recklessness.
“With all my heart; but I wish I could guess from what quarter it's coming,” said Heathcote, despondingly.
If neither felt much disposed to converse, they each drank deeply; and although scarcely more than a word or two would pass between them, they sat thus, hour after hour, till it was long past midnight.
It was after a long silence between them that Heathcote said: “I never tried so hard in my life to get drunk, without success. I find it won't do, though; I'm just as clearheaded and as low-spirited as when I started.”
“Bosh!” muttered O'Shea, half dreamily.
“It's no such thing!” retorted Heathcote. “At any ordinary time one bottle of that strong Burgundy would have gone to my head; and see, now I don't feel it.”
“Maybe you 're fretting about something. It's perhaps a weight on your heart—”
“That's it!” sighed out the other, as though the very avowal were an inexpressible relief to him.
“Is it for a woman?” asked O'Shea.
The other nodded, and then leaned his head on his hand.