"Then you do not hold the theory that a little good wine, or other spirits, after a meal, clears the brain, and aids the digestion?"
"Do I look as if I stood in need of either good office?" asked Bergan, smiling.
The doctor gave him a quick, critical glance.
"No, I cannot see that you do," he answered. "I should say that, in your case, Nature might safely be left to perform her own functions;—I do not think I ever saw human mechanism in a sounder condition, or animated by a richer vitality. Still, there can be no great harm in drinking in moderation. Of course, if one cannot do that, it is best to avoid it altogether."
Bergan looked up quickly,—almost angrily,—but there was nothing in the doctor's face or manner to indicate that his general remark was weighted with any ulterior meaning. He was holding his wine up to the light with the air of a connoisseur, and having sufficiently enjoyed its color and bouquet, he tossed it off with apparent relish. Yet Bergan could scarcely have failed to notice, had he been less preoccupied, that he then quietly pushed both glass and bottle aside, and seemed to forget their existence.
"Can I do anything for you, before I set off on my daily treadmill?" he asked, when the meal was ended.
"Nothing, thank you,—unless you can tell me where I shall be most likely to find lodgings and an office."
"An office, did you say? Do I behold in you a brother of the order of the Asclepiadæ?"
"No, I have not that honor. I am enrolled in the ranks of the Law."
"How many pegs shall I take myself down, in your estimation, if I proclaim myself a deserter therefrom?"