an accomplished hedonist. An early recognition of the
fact saved me from the Church."

"And the Church from you," said Doggie quietly.

Phineas shot a swift glance at him beneath his shaggy brown eyebrows.

"Ay," said he. "Though, mark you, if I had followed my original
vocation, the Bench of Bishops could not have surpassed me in the
unction in which I would have wallowed. If I had been born a bee in a
desert, laddie, I would have sucked honey out of a dead camel."

With easy and picturesque cynicism, and in a Glasgow accent which had
curiously broadened since his spell of Oriental ease at Denby Hall, he
developed his philosophy, illustrating it by incidents more or less
reputable in his later career. At first, possessor of the ill-gotten
thousand pounds and of considerable savings from a substantial salary,
he had enjoyed the short wild riot of the Prodigal's life. Paris saw
most of his money--the Paris which, under his auspices, Doggie never
knew. Plentiful claret set his tongue wagging in Rabelaisian
reminiscence. After Paris came husks. Not bad husks if you knew how to
cook them. Borrowed salt and pepper and a little stolen butter worked
wonders. But they were irritating to the stomach. He lay on the floor,
said he, and yelled for fatted calf; but there was no soft-headed
parent to supply it. Phineas McPhail must be a slave again and work
for his living. Then came private coaching, freelance journalism,
hunting for secretaryships: the commonplace story humorously told of
the wastrel's decline; then a gorgeous efflorescence in light green
and gold as the man outside a picture palace in Camberwell--and
lastly, the penniless patriot throwing himself into the arms of his
desirous country.

"Have you any whisky in the house, laddie?" he asked, after the dinner
things had been taken away.

"No," said Doggie, "but I could easily get you some."

"Pray don't," said McPhail. "If you had, I was going to ask you to be
kind enough not to let your excellent landlord, whom I recognize as a
butler of the old school, produce it. Butlers of the old school are
apt, like Peddle, to bring in a maddening tray of decanters, syphons,
and glasses. You may not believe me, but I haven't touched a drop of
whisky since I joined the army."

"Why?" asked Doggie.

McPhail looked at the long carefully preserved ash of one of Doggie's
excellent cigars.

"It's all a part of the doctrine of adaptability. In order to attain
happiness in