"I feel awful about missing it," Maggie said. "It was fabulous," Carol said. "Wasn't it, Ken?" "Super," Ken said. Firelight flickered in Meade's eyes as he talked, pausing only to drink, then refilling his glass from the whiskey bottle sitting on the ground near the legs of his director's chair. Up to then he had been on his best behavior, holding the intake down to two or three at the most, including before and after dinner. He was above the limit now, his bulbous nose showing the signs of his inebriation like litmus paper. Carol knew, of course, that he liked his whiskey, and over the years he had repressed his temptations on safari, as if it were a tacit understanding with Eliot, who admired his expertise and devotion but detested his weakness. Every time he had started to excuse himself, Maggie had held him back by wanting to know more about their afternoon with the elephants. Encouraging Meade to spin his yarns, especially at this hour, was for him, Carol knew, a prescription for inebriation.
