The landlady recovered her colour. Gratitude to Providence for having sent a customer to the inn, who could drink sour wine without discovering it, was the uppermost feeling in her ample bosom as she entered the private room. Mr. Mountjoy justified her anticipations. He was simple enough—with his tumbler before him, and the wine as it were under his nose—to begin with an apology.
"I am sorry to trouble you, ma'am. May I ask where you got this wine?"
"The wine, sir, was one of my late husband's bad debts. It was all he could get from a Frenchman who owed him money."
"It's worth money, ma'am."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes, indeed. This is some of the finest and purest claret that I have tasted for many a long day past."
An alarming suspicion disturbed the serenity of the landlady's mind. Was his extraordinary opinion of the wine sincere? Or was it Mr. Mountjoy's wicked design to entrap her into praising her claret and then to imply that she was a cheat by declaring what he really thought of it? She took refuge in a cautious reply:
"You are the first gentleman, sir, who has not found fault with it."
"In that case, perhaps you would like to get rid of the wine?" Mr. Mountjoy suggested.
The landlady was still cautious. "Who will buy it of me, sir?"