"Sir Louis," said the doctor, "I'm accustomed to none but my own old woman here in my own house, and if you will allow me, I'll keep my old ways. I shall be sorry if you are not comfortable." The baronet said nothing more, and the dinner passed off slowly and wearily enough.
When Mary had eaten her fruit and escaped, the doctor got into one arm-chair and the baronet into another, and the latter began the only work of existence of which he knew anything.
"That's good port," said he; "very fair port."
The doctor loved his port wine, and thawed a little in his manner. He loved it not as a toper, but as a collector loves his pet pictures. He liked to talk about it, and think about it; to praise it, and hear it praised; to look at it turned towards the light, and to count over the years it had lain in his cellar.
"Yes," said he, "it's pretty fair wine. It was, at least, when I got it, twenty years ago, and I don't suppose time has hurt it;" and he held the glass up to the window, and looked at the evening light through the ruby tint of the liquid. "Ah, dear, there's not much of it left; more's the pity."
"A good thing won't last for ever. I'll tell you what now; I wish I'd brought down a dozen or two of claret. I've some prime stuff in London; got it from Muzzle & Drug, at ninety-six shillings; it was a great favour, though. I'll tell you what now, I'll send up for a couple of dozen to-morrow. I mustn't drink you out of house, high and dry; must I, doctor?"
The doctor froze immediately.
"I don't think I need trouble you," said he; "I never drink claret, at least not here; and there's enough of the old bin left to last some little time longer yet."
Sir Louis drank two or three glasses of wine very quickly after each other, and they immediately began to tell upon his weak stomach. But before he was tipsy, he became more impudent and more disagreeable.
"Doctor," said he, "when are we to see any of this Greshamsbury money? That's what I want to know."