“It is remarkably fine, my dear sir,” said the Major, making a grimace; “but you’ll pardon me: really, my dear Mr Reed, it is sacrilege to pour water into wine like this.”
“You think so?” said Clive, smiling. “My walk underground has made me thirsty. I am no connoisseur of wine.”
The Major sat sipping from his glass, looking thoughtful and frowning, while Clive began to wish that he would go, for the afternoon was gliding by, and he felt that he had a dozen things to do.
But the visitor did not budge, and readily accepted a second glass of sherry.
“Very shocking, my dear sir, and at such a time, but I have not tasted wine like that for years.”
The Major sipped and sipped again, and in despair Clive forced himself to think of the hospitality he had received from his new friend, and giving up all thought of work for the day, unlocked a cupboard and took out a broad flattish cigar-box.
“Try one, sir,” he said, as he opened the box, and displayed a row of spindle-shaped rolls carefully wrapped in foil.
“Well, really,” said the Major, with his eyes glistening as he glanced at the brand and the box, “I—I cannot refuse, Mr Reed. Dear me, I cannot offer you hospitality like this—the finest of wine, the choicest brand of cigars. Hah!” he sighed, after lighting up, and exhaling a few whiffs of thick smoke, “exquisite! Mr Reed, one has always been taught to be suspicious of strangers. I believe I have been of you—you of me. But somehow you impressed me very favourably as a plain straightforward English gentleman; and I hope—there, I find a difficulty in expressing myself.”
“You hope, Major Gurdon, that I was as favourably impressed. I proved it, sir, when I offered to procure for you some shares in this mine.”
“Ah! I was coming to that, for I have repented, Mr Reed.”