“A deluge of wine in a free hotel!” he exclaimed, just above a whisper. “Such generosity is nearly shocking.”
“I am sorry you mention it,” said Miss Moyne, with her brightest and calmest smile; “I have been idealizing the place. A gush of grape-juice on Helicon is a picturesque thing to contemplate.”
“But a lap-full of claret on Mt. Boab is not so fine, eh? What a farce poetry is! What a humbug is romance!”
The historian had sunk back in his chair and was scowling at the purple stain which kept slowly spreading through the fiber of the cloth.
“I always do something,” he sighed, and his sincerity was obvious.
“And always with aplomb,” remarked little Mrs. Philpot.
“It would be a genius who could knock over a claret bottle with grace,” added Peck. “Now a jug of ale——”
“I was present at table once with Mr. Emerson,” began the Kentucky poet, but nobody heard the rest. A waiter came with a heavy napkin to cover the stain, and as he bent over the table he forced the man from room 24 to incline very close to Miss Moyne.
“To think of making an instance of Emerson!” he murmured. “Emerson who died before he discovered that men and women have to eat, or that wine will stain a new dress!”
“But then he discovered so many things——” she began.