“I am afraid I don't remember that,” Tavernake confessed. “Restaurant life is a thing I know so little of, and I have only drunk champagne once or twice in my life.”
“Dear, dear me!” the professor exclaimed. “You do astonish me, sir. Well, that brand was Veuve Clicquot, and you may take my word for it, Mr. Tavernake, and you may find this knowledge useful to you when you have made a fortune in America and have become a man of pleasure; there is no wine equal to it. Veuve Clicquot, sir, if possible of the year 1899, though the year 1900 is quite drinkable.”
“Veuve Clicquot,” Tavernake repeated. “I'll remember it for this evening.”
The professor beamed.
“My dear,” he said to Beatrice, “Mr. Tavernake will think that I had a purpose in testing his memory.”
Beatrice smiled.
“And hadn't you, father?” she asked.
They all laughed together.
“Well, it is pleasant,” the professor admitted, “to have one's weaknesses ministered to, especially when one is getting on in life,” he added, with a ponderous sigh. “Never mind, we will think only of pleasant subjects this evening. It will be quite interesting, Mr. Tavernake, to hear you order the supper.”
“I sha'n't attempt it,” Tavernake answered. “I shall pass it on to you.”