’Twas true enough, by my uncle’s mysterious perversity: a drop would be wanted, indeed.
“Dannie, lad,” he commanded, “fetch that there bottle!”
Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned to my uncle’s idiosyncrasy––divining the importance of it––gave me a quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle’s invitation and his sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle’s dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive draught, no doubt––to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize for the belated meat.
“T’ you, parson!” says my uncle.
I touched the tutor’s elbow.
“Water?” says he, in doubt. “Is it the custom?”
“Leave un be, Dannie.”
“Whatever the custom,” my tutor began, “of course––”
“’Tis wise,” I ventured; minded to this by the man’s awkward handling of the glass.