“I mean to tell you that I know nothing of the Fräulein Oppovich but what is amiable and good.”
“What do I care for amiable and good? I want a girl to be graceful, well-mannered, pleasing, lively to talk, and eager to listen. There, now, don't get purple about the cheeks, and flash at me such fiery looks. Here's the champagne, and we 'll drink a bumper to her.”
“Take some other name for your toast, or I 'll fling your bottle out of the window.”
“You will, will you!” said he, setting down his glass, and measuring me from head to foot.
“I swear it”
“I like that spirit, Digby; I'll be shot if I don't,” said he, taking my hand, which I did not give very willingly. “You are just what I was some fifteen or twenty years ago,—warm, impulsive, and headstrong. It's the world—that vile old mill, the world—grinds that generous nature out of one! I declare I don't believe that a spark of real trustfulness survives a man's first moustaches,—and yours are very faint, very faint indeed; there 's a suspicion of smut on the upper lip, and some small capillary flourishes along your cheek. That wine is too sweet. I 'll return to the Bordeaux.”
“I grieve to say I have no more than that bottle of it. It was some I bought when I was ill and threatened with ague.”
“What profanation! anything would be good enough for ague. It is in a man's days of vigorous health he merits cherishing. Let us console ourselves with Rodiger. Now, boy,” said he, as he cleared off a bumper from a large goblet, “I 'll give you some hints for your future, far more precious than this wine, good as it is. Gustave de Marsac, like Homer's hero, can give gold for brass, and instead of wine he will give you wisdom. First of all for a word of warning: don't fall in love with Sara. It's the popular error down here to do so, but it's a cruel mistake. That fellow that has the hemp-trade here,—what's his name,—the vulgar dog that wears mutton-chop whiskers, and fancies he's English because he gets his coats from London? I 'll remember his name presently,—he has all his life been proposing for Sara, and begging off—as matters go ill or well with the House of Oppovich; and as he is a shrewd fellow in business, all the young men here think they ought to 'go in' for Sara too.”
I should say here that, however distasteful to me this talk, and however willingly I would have repressed it, it was totally out of my power to arrest the flow of words which with the force of a swollen torrent came from him. He drank freely, too, large goblets of champagne as he talked, and to this, I am obliged to own, I looked as my last hope of being rid of him. I placed every bottle I possessed on the table, and, lighting my cigar, resigned myself, with what patience I could, to the result.
“Am I keeping you up, my dear Digby?” cried he, at last, after a burst of abuse on Fiume and all it contained that lasted about half an hour.