"How are you?" inquired Father Algarcife, with attempted lightness; "and what are you doing?"
Nevins looked up gloomily, blowing a wreath of gray smoke towards the skylight.
"Enjoying life," he responded.
The other laughed.
"It doesn't look exactly like enjoyment," he returned. "From a casual view, I should call it a condition of boredom."
He had aged ten years in the last fortnight, and his eyes had the shifting look of a man who flees an inward fear.
Nevins regarded him unsmilingly.
"Oh, I like it," he answered, lifting his glass. "Come and join me. I tell you I'd rather be drunk to-day than be President to-morrow."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing. I haven't done a damned stroke for a week; that's all. I am tired of painting people's portraits."