“After all, a birthday means very little to a man,” thought Eve. Yet she was disappointed he had refused so small a service.
When his scene was over, Wynne dressed quickly and hurried from the theatre. In his pocket was a sum of six shillings and threepence. He counted it by touch as he walked down Maiden Lane and struck across Covent Garden. Before a modest wine shop in Endell Street he stopped and considered. In the window was a pyramid of champagne bottles, the base composed of magnums, the first tier of quarts, the second of pints, and, resting proudly on top, a single half-pint. Each size was carefully priced, even the tiny bottle showing a ticket on which was printed, “Two shillings and eightpence.”
Wynne squared his shoulders and entered the shop with an air of some importance.
“This Dry Royal,” he said, “is it a wine you can recommend?”
“It is a very drinkable wine,” replied the merchant. “Of course it does not compare—”
But Wynne interrupted with:
“I’ll take one of the half-pints to sample.”
“I have no half-pints.”
“There is one in the window.”
“It is not for sale.”