"Granted. But you, you seem to possess a peculiar interest."
The vintner flushed. "I have that right," with an air which rather mystified Carmichael.
"That explains everything. I do not recollect seeing you before in the Black Eagle."
"I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in the valleys late in September."
"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the Rhine."
"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any France in the future?"
Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not die."
"You are fond of France?"
"Very."
"Do you think it wise to say so here?"