“Nothing, thanks. I’m not thirsty.”
“Oh—all right,” answered Ralston discontentedly. “I’ll have a pint of Irroy Brut with a bit of lemon peel in it. Champagne isn’t wine—it’s
only a beverage,” he added, turning to Bright as though to explain his reasons for wanting so much.
“I quite agree with you,” said Bright, lighting a cigar. “Champagne isn’t wine, and it’s not fit to drink at the best. Either give me wine that is wine, or give me whiskey.”
“Whichever you like.”
“Did you say whiskey, sir?” enquired the bar-tender, who was in the act of rubbing the rim of a pint glass with a lemon peel.
“Nothing, thank you. I’m not thirsty,” answered Bright a third time.
“Hallo, Bright, my little man! What are you doing here? Oh—Jack Ralston—I see.”
The speaker was a very minute and cheerful specimen of human New York club life,—pink-cheeked, black-eyed, neat and brisk, not more than five feet six inches in height, round as a little barrel, with tiny hands and feet. He watched Ralston, as soon as he noticed him. The bar-tender had emptied the pint bottle of champagne into the glass and Ralston had set it to his lips with the evident intention of finishing it at a draught.