“Moral——” cried the delighted Fenmarch. “Never try to steal a march on your wife—it doesn’t pay, my boy. It doesn’t pay.”
And he inhaled the aroma of the Heaven-given wine, and drank with the serenity of the man who has never offended the high gods.
Olivia, anxious to console, said to Mr. Trivett:
“I’ll send you some round to-morrow.”
Trivett spread out his great arms.
“My dear, it’ll have to settle. If moved, it won’t be fit to drink for a couple of months.”
Eventually he reconciled himself to the loss of the subtler shades of flavour, and he shared with Fenmarch the drinkable remainder of the carefully handled bottle.
But it was not for this genial orgy that Olivia had convened the meeting.
“I owe you two dears an apology,” she said.
They protested. An impossibility.