“Certainly. I’ll drink with you, mother.”
The thought had come to him as he had spoken it, impulsively and not with premeditation, but the effect on the woman was quick and remarkable.
She gave a start like one frightened, and she looked into the speaker’s face as though she would look him through. Very soon, however, she overcame the emotion, and said, with a poor attempt at a smile:
“Indeed, boy, you know I never drink wine in the evening.”
“And it is seldom that I take it with my supper,” the youth returned, pleasantly.
“But this is very fine.”
“Ah,” taking up the bottle and holding it between his eye and the blaze of the nearest candle, “where did this come from?”
“From France, I suppose; though it is of Italian vintage.”
“I mean, how came it here? How did you get it?”
“It must have come from one of the brig’s crew, of course. Very likely old Rodney brought it up, or it may have been Stephen Harley. I only know it is a very fine old wine, the like of which we do not often see.”