"Let's have a wet. That's a good idea," said the purser.
The Prince ceremoniously lifted his glass to us and took our eyes.
Lane quaffed his, emitting his usual gag hoarsely.
"Fortune!"
How amazingly odd it sounded, like the ironic exclamation of some onlooking demon of sarcasm.
"Fortune!"
I drank my wine at a gulp. "To a good end, if may be," I said. "To rest, at least."
Barraclough held his glass coolly and examined it critically.
"It's Pommery, isn't it, sir?" he asked.
I do not think the Prince answered. Barraclough sipped.