“I say, Swinton!” he said aloud, addressing his host in a friendly, familiar manner. “I never eat stewed oysters without champagne. Have you got any in the house? Excuse me for asking the question! It’s a positive impertinence.”
“Nothing of the sort, Sir Robert. I’m only sorry to say there’s not a single bottle of champagne in my cellar. We’ve been here such a short while, and I’ve not had time to stock it. But no matter for that I can send out, and get—”
“No!” said the baronet, interrupting him. “I shan’t permit that; unless you allow me to pay for it.”
“Sir Robert!”
“Don’t be offended, my dear fellow. That isn’t what I mean. The reason why I’ve made the offer is because I know you can’t get real champagne in this neighbourhood—not nearer than Winckworth’s. Now, it so happens, that they are my wine merchants. Let me send to them. It isn’t very far. Your servant, in a hansom cab, can fetch the stuff, and be back in fifteen minutes. But to get the right stuff he must order it for me.”
Sir Robert’s host was not the man to stand upon punctilios. Good champagne was not so easily procured—especially in the neighbourhood of Saint John’s Wood. He knew it; and, surrendering his scruples, he rang the bell for the servant, permitting Sir Robert to write out the order. It was carte blanche, both for the cab and champagne.
In less than twenty minutes the messenger returned, bringing back with him a basket of choice “Cliquot.”
In five minutes more a bottle was uncorked; and the three sat quaffing it, Swinton, his wife, and the stingy nobleman who stood treat—not stingy now, over that which promised him a pleasure.