So I knocked off the neck of the bottle in medieval fashion—which wasted its contents because she was afraid of swallowing glass, and said so decidedly. I then noticed a row of corkscrews hanging on a beam, and she, at the same moment, discovered a tasting porringer of antique silver under one of the casks.
She picked it up naïvely and polished it with a corner of her apron. Then she looked inquiringly at me.
So I drew the cork and filled her porringer.
"It is delicious Moselle," she said. "Is it Château Varenn?"
"It is. How did you guess?"
"I once tasted some."
"Another of your accomplishments," said I, laughing. She laughed too, but blushed a little at her expert knowledge of Moselle.
"I have rather a keen sense of taste and a good memory," she explained lightly; and she sipped her Moselle looking at me over the rim of the silver porringer—a perilous proceeding for me.
"Thusis," said I.
"Yes, Monsieur O'Ryan."