Here everybody held up their glasses against the light, took another sip and murmured their approval.
“Do you think this is a good wine, Fane?” demanded Lonsdale, thereby drawing so much attention to Michael that he blushed to nearly as deep a color as the port itself.
“I like it very much,” Michael said.
“Do you like it, Wedderburn?” asked Lonsdale, turning to the freshman who had sat in the armchair at the head of the second table.
“Damned good wine,” pronounced Wedderburn in a voice so rich with appreciation and so deep with judgment that he immediately established a reputation for worldly knowledge, and from having been slightly derided at Eton for his artistic ambitions was ever afterward respected and consulted. Michael envied his air of authority, but trembled for Wedderburn’s position when he heard him reproach Lonsdale for his lack of any good pictures.
“You might stick up one that can be looked at for more than two seconds,” Wedderburn said severely.
“What sort of picture?” asked Lonsdale.
“Primavera, for instance,” Wedderburn suggested, and Michael’s heart beat in sympathy.
“Never heard of the horse,” Lonsdale answered. “Who owned her?”
“My god,” Wedderburn rumbled, “I’ll take you to buy one to-morrow, Lonny. You deserve it after that.”