"No drink for me, Brandy. I've been in the temperance State of Maine for two weeks. One week more of it and I'd have been completely pickled. I shall always remember Maine." He dropped into a broad wicker chair and felt tenderly of his nose. "'Gad, I'm not quite sure that the sun did it, old man. It was dreadful."
Booth grinned. "Do any fishing?"
"Yes. The first day. Oh, you needn't look at me like that. I'm back in the narrow path." After a moment of painful reflection, he added, "We didn't see water after the first day. I'm just beginning to get used to the taste of it again."
"Never mind, Pat," said Booth, as the servant appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Wrandall is not suffering."
"You know I'm not a drinking man," declared Leslie, a pathetic note of appeal in his voice. "I hate the stuff."
"It is a good thing to let alone."
"And don't I let it alone? You never saw me tight in your life."
Booth sat down on the porch rail, hooked his toes in the supports and proceeded to fill his pipe. Then he struck a match and applied it, Leslie watching him with moody eyes.
"How do you like the portrait, old man?" he inquired between punctuating puffs.
"It's bully. Sargent never did anything finer. Ripping."