Jonathan deferentially uncorked, excessive composure on his visage. He arranged the table-cloth to a nicety, fixed the bottle with exactness, and was only sent scudding by the old gentleman’s muttering of: “Eavesdropping pie!” followed by a short, “Go!” and even then he must delay to sweep off a particular crumb.
“Good it is!” said Mr. Andrew, rolling the flavour on his lips, as he put down his glass. “I follow you in Port, Tom. Elder brother!”
The old gentleman also drank, and was mollified enough to reply: “Shan’t follow you in Parliament.”
“Haven’t forgiven that yet, Tom?”
“No great harm done when you’re silent.”
“Capital Port!” said Mr. Andrew, replenishing the glasses. “I ought to have inquired where they kept the best Port. I might have known you’d stick by it. By the way, talking of Parliament, there’s talk of a new election for Fallowfield. You have a vote there. Will you give it to Jocelyn? There’s talk of his standing.
“If he’ll wear petticoats, I’ll give him my vote.”
“There you go, Tom!”
“I hate masquerades. You’re penny trumpets of the women. That tattle comes from the bed-curtains. When a petticoat steps forward I give it my vote, or else I button it up in my pocket.”
This was probably one of the longest speeches he had ever delivered at the Aurora. There was extra Port in it. Jonathan, who from his place of observation noted the length of time it occupied, though he was unable to gather the context, glanced at Mr. Andrew with a sly satisfaction. Mr. Andrew, laughing, signalled for another pint.