Piers watched him with an odd, half-scoffing smile about his lips. "Do you never drink when you are by yourself?" he asked.
"Not when I'm working," said Crowther.
"I see! Work is sacred, what?"
Crowther looked at him. The mockery of the tone had been scarcely veiled; but there was no consciousness of the fact in Crowther's quiet reply. "Yes; just that, sonny."
Piers laughed again, a bitter, gibing laugh. "I suppose it's more to you than your own soul—or anyone else's," he said.
Crowther paused in the act of pouring out. "Now what do you mean?" he said.
His eyes, direct and level, looked full at Piers. They held no anger, no indignation, only calm enquiry.
Piers faced the look with open mockery. "I mean, my good friend," he said, "that if I asked you to chuck it all and go round the world with me—you'd see me damned first."
Crowther's eyes dropped gravely to the job in hand. "Say when!" he said.
Piers made a restless movement. "Oh, that's enough! Strong drink is not my weakness. Why don't you answer my question?"