"Nonsense. Ten years ago you went on a spree because there were no portraits to paint."
"Yes," Nevins admitted, "history repeats itself—with variations. The truth is, Anthony, I can't work."
"Can't? Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I am going to drink about it."
He drained his glass, laid his pipe aside, and rose, running his hand through his hair until it stood on end.
"Don't be an idiot. You gave all that up long ago."
Nevins filled his glass and looked up at the skylight.
| "'Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before |
| I swore—but was I sober when I swore?'" |
he retorted, with a laugh. Then he lowered his voice. "Between you and me," he said, "drinking is not what it is cracked up to be. To save my life, I can't detect a whiff of that old delicious savor of vice. I detect a twinge of gout instead. Coming conditions cast their claws before."
Father Algarcife glanced about the room impatiently.