But Fenmarch, eager on the pouring, cried:
“Don’t move your glass, for God’s sake, Olivia. You’ll waste it.”
But Trivett, with a false air of chivalry, let her off with half a glass. Fenmarch refolded the napkin, so as to give the temporarily abandoned bottle a higher tilt. The two men smelled the wine. For the first time since the awful night of disillusion, Olivia felt happy. These old dears! It was like stuffing greedy children with chocolates.
The two elderly gentlemen raised their glasses and bowed to her. Then sipped.
“Ah!” said Fenmarch.
“H’m,” said Trivett, with the knitted brow of puzzlement.
Then, suddenly the grey, badgery little man who had never been known to laugh violently, gave Olivia the shock of her life. He thrust his chair from the table and smacked his thigh and exploded in a high-pitched cackle of hilarity.
“He can’t taste it! He’s been drinking whisky! He has paralysed his palate. I’ve been waiting for it!” He beat the air with his hands. “Oh Lord! That’s good!”
Trivett’s fat jowl fell.
“——” he gasped, regardless of Olivia. “So I have.”