"There," he said, when he set down the glass empty, "that for your pious platitudes, my friends."
The action seemed to restore something of his equanimity, and it also brought back the old bravado which had characterised him.
"The brave warrior appears to require Dutch courage," remarked Sprague, who seemed bent on arousing all that was evil in him.
"Better that than none at all," remarked Leicester quietly. "And let me tell you this, my friend, you can tell your mother that I shall not assist you in your drawing-room meetings. By the way, what line are you on now? Is it Hottentot children, anti-smoking, or the conversion of the Jews?"
The colour had risen to his cheeks, the old light had come back to his eyes.
"As if I cared for your Dorcas meeting standards of morality," he went on. "What, you thought the poor sinner was repenting, eh? And you had all your texts, and your rag-tags of advice to pour into my willing ears. Tell me, Sprague, have you selected one of your women speakers to speak a word in season? You know how partial I am to public women."
"You tried to give up the drink for a whole week for one," retorted Sprague angrily.
"Did I, now? Well, then, I'll make up for my past misdeeds. I repent of my backsliding, my dear pastor, and I return to my spiritual comforter."
He poured out more whisky, still with a steady hand, and looked at them with a mocking smile.
"Have faith, Sprague," he said; "have faith, as your favourite women speakers say so eloquently at those dear drawing-room meetings which you love so much, 'there's nothing done without faith.'"