"There is something wrong with the flavour," he said: "something a little bitter."
"Try it again," said Hugo, averting his eyes. "I thought it very good. At any rate, it is harmless: one may drink any amount of it without doing oneself an injury."
"Yes, but this is curiously coarse in flavour," persisted Dino. "One would think that it was mixed with some other spirit or cordial. But I must try it again."
He drained his glass. Hugo refilled it immediately, but soon perceived that it was needless to offer his guest a second draught. Dino raised his hand to his brow with a puzzled gesture, and then spoke confusedly.
"I do not know how it is," he said. "I am quite dizzy—I cannot see—I——"
His eyes grew dim: his hands fell to his sides, and his head upon his breast. He muttered a few incoherent words, and then sank into silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and something like an occasional groan. Hugo watched him carefully, and smiled to himself now and then. In a short time he rose, emptied the remainder of the wine in the flask into Dino's glass, rinsed out the flask with clear water, then poured the dregs, as well as the wine in the glasses, into the mould of a large flower-pot that stood in a corner of the room. "Nobody can tell any tales now, I think," said Hugo, with a triumphant, disagreeable smile. And then he called the waiter and paid his bill—as if he were a temporary visitor instead of having lodgings in the house, as he had led Dino to believe.
The waiter glanced once or twice at the figure on the chair. "Gentleman had a leetle moche to drink," he said, nodding towards poor Dino.
"A little too much," said Hugo, carelessly. "He'll be better soon." Then he went and shook the young man by the arm. "Come," he said, "it's time for us to go. Wake up; I'll see you home. That wine was a little too strong for you, was it not?"
Dino opened his eyes, half-rose, muttered something, and then sank back in his chair.
"Gentleman want a cab, perhaps?" said the waiter.