Skepsey repeated: ‘Jarniman!’ and flew.
‘A good servant,’ Mr. Radnor said. ‘Few of us think of our country so much, whatever may be said of the specific he offers. Colney has impressed him somehow immensely: he studies to write too; pushes to improve himself; altogether a worthy creature.’
The second bottle appeared. The waiter, in sincerity a reluctant executioner, heightened his part for the edification of the admiring couple.
‘Take heart, Benjamin,’ said Mr. Fenellan; ‘it’s only the bottle dies; and we are the angels above to receive the spirit.’
‘I’m thinking of the house,’ Benjamin replied. He told them that again.
‘It ‘s the loss of the fame of having the wine, that he mourns. But, Benjamin,’ said Mr. Fenellan, ‘the fame enters into the partakers of it, and we spread it, and perpetuate it for you.’
‘That don’t keep a house upright,’ returned Benjamin.
Mr. Fenellan murmured to himself: ‘True enough, it ‘s elegy—though we perform it through a trumpet; and there’s not a doubt of our being down or having knocked the world down, if we’re loudly praised.’
Benjamin waited to hear approval sounded on the lips uncertain as a woman is a wine of ticklish age. The gentlemen nodded, and he retired.
A second bottle, just as good as the first, should, one thoughtlessly supposes, procure us a similar reposeful and excursive enjoyment, as of men lying on their backs and flying imagination like a kite. The effect was quite other. Mr. Radnor drank hastily and spoke with heat: ‘You told me All? tell me that!’