e cries,
And I am weary of the skies
Since--'"

He broke off and shook himself nervously, and looked at Griggs, as
though wondering whether the latter had heard.

"This wine is good," he said, rousing himself. "Let us have some more.
Giulio!"

The fat waiter awoke instantly at the call, looked, nodded, went out,
and returned immediately with another bottle.

"Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dalrymple, slowly.

"Eight with Signor Reanda's," answered the man. "But Signor Reanda paid
for his as he went out. You have therefore seven. It might be enough."
Giulio smiled.

"Bring seven more, Giulio," said the Scotchman, gravely. "It will save
you six journeys."

"Does the Signore speak in earnest?" asked the servant, and he glanced
at Griggs, who was impassive as marble.

"You flatter yourself," said Dalrymple, impressively, to the man, "if
you imagine that I would make even a bad joke to amuse you. Bring seven
bottles." Giulio departed.

"That is a Homeric order," observed Griggs.

"I think--in fact, I am almost sure--that seven bottles more will
produce an impression upon one of us. But I have a decidedly melancholic
disposition, and I accustomed myself to Italian wine when I was very
young. Melancholy people can drink more than others. Besides, what does
such a bottle hold? I will show you. A tumbler to you, and one to me.
Drink; you shall see."

He emptied his glass and poured the remainder of the bottle into it.

"Do you see? Half a tumbler. Two and a half are a bottle. Seven bottles
are seventeen and a half glasses. What is that for you or me in a long
evening? My blue devils are large. It would take an ocean to float them
all. I insist upon going to bed in a good humour to-night, for once, in
honour of my daughter's engagement. By the bye, Griggs, what do you
think of Reanda?"

"He is a first-rate artist. I like him very well."

"A good man, eh? Well, well--from the point of view of discretion,
Griggs, I am doing right. But then, as you may very wisely object,
discretion is only a point of view. The important thing is the view, and
not the point. Here comes Ganymede with the seven vials of wrath! Put
them on the table, Giulio," he said, as the fat waiter came noiselessly
up, carrying the bottles by the necks between his fingers, three in one
hand and four in the other. "They make a fine show, all together," he
observed thoughtfully, with his bony head a little on one s