The Marquis tossed it off, and set down the glass. “Quite tolerable,” he said.
“God bless the boy, that’s no way to treat a wine like this!” said Rupert, shocked. “We’ll broach the port after dinner, and if you throw that down your throat as though it was nothing in particular, I’ll wash my hands of you, and so I warn you.”
“I’m not dining,” the Marquis replied. “Out of the way, Rupert, I’m in a hurry.”
“Not dining?” echoed his lordship. “But Vidal, there’s a capon and a trifle of veal, and as sweet a game-pie in the oven as you could wish for.” His nephew put him firmly aside, and strode out, leaving him to shake his head in great disapproval. “Mad!” he said. “Stark staring crazy!”
“It is you who are mad,” said Léonie with conviction. “You have bought all those bottles of wine, which is a great madness, for how in the world can you take them to England? I will not sit in a chaise with six dozen bottles of burgundy. It is not at all comme il faut.”
“I can hire a coach for ’em, can’t I?” retorted Rupert. “Now don’t start arguing, Léonie: I’ve been dragged all over France on as silly an errand as ever I heard of, and never a word of complaint out of me. I’ll admit you were in the right about Dijon. If you hadn’t insisted on coming here I’d not have found this burgundy. And now I’ve found it, damme, I’m going to carry it back to London with me!”
“But Rupert, it is not so important — ”
“It’s a deal more important than Vidal’s silly affairs,” said his lordship severely. “There’s some sense in coming to Dijon to pick up wine like this.”
Mr. Comyn, who had been gazing at him in wonderment, ventured to say: “Hire a coach to carry wine?”
“Why not?” said his lordship.