A vivid recollection of Phœbe's being despatched once before in an emergency for mustard and returning with custard flashed through my mind.
"She's much too unreliable," I cried. "She'd get bay rum, or something equally futile. It must be Johann or nothing."
"Then," said Joan, "let us say nothing"—an ambiguity of which I determined to take full advantage.
Johann, I must now explain, was the sole survivor of six small bottles of the genuine Rhine brand which Joan's uncle (who is in the trade) had given her last Christmas. Number Five had been opened on the evening of August Bank Holiday after a strenuous day on the tennis courts. Later, when hostilities had started all round I had taken a terrible oath that nothing of German or Austrian origin should be used in our household until Peace broke out. This necessitated the sacrifice of at least four inches of breakfast sausage and the better part of a box of Carlsbad plums. Johann, being intact, was merely interned. But at that time I had not anticipated that some three months later I should be exhausted by long and tiring drills and manœuvres.
However, on this night my body cried aloud for Johann's refreshing contents. I did not care two pins that he had been manufactured on the banks of the Rhine, or that he was the product of alien and hostile hands. After all, it wasn't Johann's fault; and besides, surely he had been long enough in England to become naturalised. At any rate it was both prejudiced and illogical to assume that Johann was my enemy solely because he happened to be born in Germany.
The bath took some time to fill. The taps, I think, wanted sweeping. But during the time that elapsed I made up my mind. Johann should be opened. I slipped on my dressing-gown and went in search of him. When I had secured him I met Joan on the landing; she was just going down to dinner.
"Haven't you had your bath yet?" she asked. "Hurry up and—oh! you've got Johann!"
"Yes," I said. "I have decided that there is no evidence to prove that he is not a naturalised British bottle. I am going to open him."
"You renegade!" Joan cried. "If you dare so much as to loosen his cork I'll—I'll give you an Iron Cross."
"I'm desperate," I answered. "I would still open Johann even if you threatened me with the Iron Cross of both the first and the second class."