"Medicinal," she murmured.
"Forgive me, Madam. A glass, certainly. 'Twill warm us for worshipping."
The wine appeared, seemed to blink owlishly through the facets of its decanter, like some hoary captive dragged forth into light after years of subterraneous darkness—something querulous in the sudden liberation of it. Or say that it gleamed benignant from its tray, steady-borne by the hands of reverence, as one has seen Infallibility pass with uplifting of jewelled fingers through genuflexions to the Balcony. Port has this in it: that it compels obeisance, master of us; as opposed to brother and sister wines wooing us with a coy flush in the gold of them to a cursory tope or harlequin leap shimmering up the veins with a sly wink at us through eyelets. Hussy vintages swim to a cosset. We go to Port, mark you!
Sir Rebus sipped with an affectionate twirl of thumb at the glass's stem. He said "One scents the cobwebs."
"Catches in them," Euphemia flung at him.
"I take you. Bacchus laughs in the web."
"Unspun but for Pallas."
"A lady's jealousy."
"Forethought, rather."
"Brewed in the paternal pate. Grant it!"