“Lord! How you go on!” exclaimed Scroggs. “What with a sampling this and sampling that, my head’s going round like a top. If there’s anything in the cellar the old patroons put down we haven’t tried, sir, I beg to defer the sampling. I am of the sage’s mind––‘Of all men who take wine, the moderate only enjoy it,’ says Master Bacon, or some one else.”
“Pass the bottle!” answered the other. “Gently, man! Don’t disturb its repose, and remember it disdains the perpendicular.”
“So will I soon,” muttered Scroggs. “I hope you’ll excuse me, sir, but that last drop of Veuve Cliquot was the whip-cord that started the top going, and, on my word”––raising his hands to his head––“I feel like holding it on to keep it from spinning off.”
“Spinning or not, you shall try this vintage”––the young man’s eyes gleamed with such fire as shone in the glass––“and drink to Constance Carew!”
“Constance Carew!” stammered the other, desperately swallowing the toast.
Mauville slowly emptied the glass. “A balsamic taste, slightly piquant but agreeable,” he observed. “A dangerous wine, Scroggs! It carries no warning; your older kind is like a world-worn coquette whose glances at once place you on the defensive. This 117 maiden vintage, just springing into glorious womanhood, comes over you like a springtime dream.”
“Who––who is she?” muttered Scroggs.
“She is not in the scroll you prepared for my lamented kinsman, eh? They are, for the most part, deep red, dark scarlet––that list of fair dames! She doesn’t belong to them––yet! No title, man; not even a society lady. A stroller, which is next door to a vagrant.”