"It doesn't look exactly like enjoyment," he returned. "From a casual view, I should call it a condition of boredom." He had aged ten years in the last fortnight, and his eyes had the shifting look of a man who flees an inward fear. Nevins regarded him unsmilingly. "Oh, I like it," he answered, lifting his glass. "Come and join me. I tell you I'd rather be drunk to-day than be President to-morrow." "What's the matter?" "Oh, nothing. I haven't done a damned stroke for a week; that's all. I am tired of painting people's portraits." "Nonsense. Ten years ago you went on a spree because there were no portraits to paint." "Yes," Nevins admitted, "history repeats itself--with variations. The truth is, Anthony, I can't work." "Can't? Well, what are you going to do about it?" "I am going to drink about it." He drained his glass, laid his pipe aside, and rose, running his hand through his hair until it stood on end. "Don't be an idiot. You gave all that up long ago." Nevins filled his glass and looked up at the skylight. "'Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore?'" he retorted, with a laugh. Then he lowered his voice. "Between you and me," he said, "drinking is not what it is cracked up to be. To save my life, I can't detect a whiff of that old delicious savor of vice. I detect a twinge of gout instead. Coming conditions cast their claws before." Father Algarcife glanced about the room impatiently. "Come," he said, "I am hurried. Let's see the portrait." Nevins tossed a silk scarf from a canvas in the corner, and the other regarded the work for a moment in silence. "Yes, I like it," he said. "I like it very much indeed." As he turned away, he stumbled against the easel containing the canvas on which Nevins had been working, and he started and drew back, his face paling. It was the portrait of Mariana, her profile drawn against the purple curtain. Nevins, following him with his eyes, spoke suddenly. "That also is good, is it not?" he asked. Father Algarcife stared above the portrait to the row of death-masks on their ebony frame. "Yes, that also is good," he repeated. As he descended the stairs he met Ardly coming up, his eyes bright and his handsome face aglow. They stopped and shook hands. "Politics agree with you, I see," said Father Algarcife. "I am glad of it." Ardly nodded animatedly. "Yes, yes," he returned, "there is nothing like it, and we are going to give you the best government the city has ever seen. There is no doubt of that." "All right," and he passed on. When he reached the street he turned westward. It was the brilliant hour of a changeable afternoon, the sunshine slanting across the sidewalks in sharp lights and shadows, and the river wind entering the lungs like the incision of a blade. The people he met wore their collars close about their throats, their faces blue from the cold.