Mr. Vimpany returned from his medical errand, thoroughly well satisfied with himself.
"The Mayor's mother has reason to thank you, sir," he announced. "If you hadn't hurried me away, the wretched old creature would have been choked. A regular stand-up fight, by Jupiter, between death and the doctor!—and the doctor has won! Give me the reward of merit. Pass the bottle."
He took up the decanter, and looked at it.
"Why, what have you been about?" he asked. "I made up my mind that I should want the key of the cellar when I came back, and I don't believe you have drunk a drop in my absence. What does it mean?"
"It means that I am not worthy of your sherry," Mountjoy answered. "The Spanish wines are too strong for my weak digestion."
Mr. Vimpany burst into one of his explosions of laughter. "You miss the landlady's vinegar—eh?"
"Yes, I do! Wait a minute, doctor; I have a word to say on my side—and, like you, I mean what I say. The landlady's vinegar is some of the finest Chateau Margaux I have ever met with—thrown away on ignorant people who are quite unworthy of it."
The doctor's natural insolence showed itself. "You have bought this wonderful wine, of course?" he said satirically.
"That," Mountjoy answered, "is just what I have done."
For once in his life, Mr. Vimpany's self-sufficient readiness of speech failed him. He stared at his guest in dumb amazement. On this occasion, Mountjoy improved the opportunity to good purpose. Mr. Vimpany accepted with the utmost readiness an invitation to dine on the next day at the inn. But he made a condition. "In case I don't agree with you about that Chateau—what-you-call-it," he said, "you won't mind my sending home for a bottle of sherry?"