“No,” said the doctor, smiling. “It’s the best brandy, and I’ll take a little with you.”
He filled up his guest’s glass, and then smilingly took a second tumbler from the cupboard, and mixed himself a draught.
“Yes, not bad brandy, doctor, but wants age,” said Poynter, rinsing his mouth with the hot spirit and water, as if he had been cleaning his teeth. “Now, I have a few dozen of a fine old cognac in my cellar that would give this fifty in a hundred, and lick it hollow.”
Perhaps to be expressive, Mr James Poynter shuffled his shoulders against the cushion of the chair and licked his lips, ending with a fish-like smack.
“Let me send you a dozen, doctor.”
“No, no, my dear sir. I did not know you were in the wine and spirit trade.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“And I could not afford—”
“Yah! Who asked you to? I meant as a present. Wine and spirit trade, indeed! Hang it! Do I look like a publican?”
Dr Chartley told an abominable lie, for if ever man, from the crown of his pomatumed head, down over his prominent nubbey forehead, small eyes, prominent cheekbones, unpleasant nose, and heavy jaw, to the toes of his boots, looked like a fast, race-attending licenced victualler, it was James Poynter.