"Perhaps after being in the fog so long," Conscience suggested, "a little brandy might be advisable," but Eben Tollman laughed.
"My dear, for some unaccountable reason, I feel as if I'd been away from home as long as Enoch Arden—and I'm much happier to be back. I am in the mood for celebration. There's a bottle of old Madeira in the pantry. I don't think a little of it will harm any of us ... and I'm going to dissipate even farther. I'm going to smoke a cigar." Smoking a cigar was with Eben a rite which occurred with the frequency of a Christmas or a Thanksgiving dinner.
Something youthful had come into his manner, and Farquaharson, in spite of his misery, laughed.
"I'm afraid I'm hardly dressed for a party," he demurred, but Eben answered in a tone of aggrieved hospitality.
"My dear fellow, you are much more fully dressed than when you go bathing; both of you—and how can I celebrate alone?" So Stuart smilingly asserted:
"All right. We'll have a toast in your excellent Madeira to the return of Enoch Arden."
Possibly his voice held a meaning less light than his words. Perhaps he was thinking of it as a toast to his own departure into exile, but to Eben it had the ring of a sneer, as though the words "too late" had been added.
Conscience disappeared to return shortly with a tray containing cold meat and bread, and to her husband she said: "Eben, I can't find the famous Madeira. Where is it?"
He rose, and announced that he would bring it at once, disappearing beyond the swinging door of the pantry.