"I'll keep it moving," said Johnny.
"Do; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it? Old Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of tidy Bordeaux. It's '41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it all."
"What was the figure, Broughton?" said Crosbie, asking the question which he knew was expected.
"Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it's worth a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first."
"Thank you, no; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry."
"Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton.
"It's strange, isn't it? but I don't."
"I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?" said Johnny to his friend afterwards.
"So I did," said Conway; "and wonderfully good wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink anything in a man's house when he praises it himself and tells me the price of it."
"And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," said Johnny.