“Oh, no!” the girl protested—“I don’t need it, really.”
But Victor wouldn’t listen; and disappearing into shadowed distances, returned presently with a brimming goblet.
“Drink this, dear. It will make you feel quite fit again.”
Obediently, Sofia raised the goblet to her lips.
“You have never tasted a wine like that,” Victor insisted, smiling down at her.
It was true enough, what he claimed; though it had something of character of a sound old Madeira, this wine had more, a surpassing richness, a fruitiness in no way cloying, a peculiarly aromatic taste and fragrance, elusive and provoking, with a hint of bitterness never to be analyzed by the most experienced palate.
“What is it?” Sofia asked after her first sip.
“You like it, eh? An old wine of China, unknown to Western Europe.” Victor gave it a musical name in what Sofia took to be Chinese. “Outside my cellars, I’ll wager there’s not another bottle of it this side of Constantinople. Drink it all. It will do you good.”
He seated himself. “And now my reason for wishing to talk with you to-night.... A note came by the last delivery from Lady Randolph West. You met her, I understand, through Sybil Waring, a few days ago. She was apparently much taken with you.”
“She is very kind.”