A great buxom wench with a cheery face answered the summons, and he bade her cook what meats they had with all celerity.
"Meantime," said he, "we will while away the interval over a posset of Bristol milk. You have never tasted that, Mr. Buckler? I would that I could say the same. I envy you the pleasure of your first acquaintance with its merit."
The "milk," as he termed it, was a strong brewage of Spanish wine, singularly luxurious and palatable. Mr. Vincott held up his glass to the light, and the liquid sparkled like a clear ruby.
"'Tis a generous drink," he said. "It gives nimbleness to the body, wealth to the blood, and lightness to the heart. The true Promethean fire!" And he drained the glass, and smacked his lips.
"That is a fine strapping wench," said I. "She must be of my height, or thereabouts."
The lawyer cocked his head at me. "Ah!" said he drily, "a wonderful thing is Bristol milk."
But I was thinking of something totally different.
The girl fetched in a stew of beef, steaming hot, and we sat down to it, though indeed I had little inclination for the meal.
"Now, Mr. Vincott," said I, "I will pray you, while we are eating, to help me to the history of Julian's calamities." I think that my voice broke somewhat on the word, for he laid his hand gently upon my arm. "I know nothing of it myself beyond what you have told me, and a rumour that came to me in London."
The lawyer sat silent for a time, drumming with his fingers on the table.