They shook hands; Annan pushed the Irish whiskey toward him and pointed to the ice and mineral water.
“Mike,” he said, “is my stuff rotten?”
Coltfoot, who had been inspecting his thin features, laughed.
“Not so rotten,” he said. “Why?”
“You once said it was all wrong.”
“Probably professional jealousy, Barry——” He constructed an iced draught for himself, sipped it, furtively noticing the bluish shadows on Annan’s temples and under his cheek-bones.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.
“Nothing.... I’m worried because I can’t write.”
“Rot, my son.”
“It’s quite true. I haven’t touched a pen for a month, nearly.... The hell of it is that I’ve nothing to say.”