“No,” he said, “‘shameful’ is not the word. Rather I should say,” he hesitated, “‘shameless.’”
Roberts regarded him carefully.
“What is your interpretation of that word?”
“The usual one,” said Drew slowly. “A lacking of, Roberts. Not a diverting of.”
“You think then, that he has no moral sense at all,” said Roberts, as though in agreement.
Drew tilted the flagon, observing the changing violet lights as the clear, thick drops of the liqueur ran individually down the neck of the bottle.
“It isn’t this important, dear,” he said. “It can’t be this important.” He was still observing the flagon. “Do you know this amazing drink?” he asked. “It comes from a small flower that grows only in the Bavarian Alps, and at an altitude of between four and five thousand feet. This very discriminating blossom is called the ‘blue dormant.’ ... A boy once pointed out to me the place where they grew,” he said reflectively.
“Oh! Damn you, Drew!” said Roberts miserably. “Answer my question. You’ve often told me that you, yourself, were unmoral, not immoral—are you drawing a likeness?”
Drew replaced the Gebirge Enzian and faced Roberts, sincerity in his voice.