"Eliza," I said, "I have brought you a little present. It is a bottle of port." Eliza very rarely takes anything at all, but if she does it is a glass of port. In this respect I admire her taste. Port, as I have sometimes said to her, is the king of wines. We decided that we would have a glass after supper. That is really the best time to take anything of the kind; the wine soothes the nerves and prevents insomnia.
Eliza picked the bottle up and looked at the label. "Why," she said, "you told me it was port!"
"So it is."
"It says tonic port on the label."
"Well, tonic port practically is port. That is to say, it is port with the addition of—er—phosphates."
"What are phosphates?"
"Oh, there are so many of them, you know. There is quinine, of course, and magnesium, and—and so on. Let me fill your glass."
She took one very little sip. "It isn't what I should call a pleasant wine," she said. "It stings so."
"Ah!" I said, "that's the phosphates. It would be a little like that. But that's not the way to judge a port. What you should do is to take a large mouthful and roll it round the tongue,—then you get the aroma. Look: this is the way."