t down.

"How are you getting on?"

"Well," said I. "Very well." I sipped my port. I recognised Cockburn
1870.

"You seemed rather at a loose end."

"When one has 1870 port to drink," said I, "why fritter away its flavour
in vain words?"

"It is damned good port," Adrian admitted.

"Earth holds nothing better," said I.

We lapsed into silence amid the talk on each side of us. I confess that
I rather surrendered myself to the wine. A little taper for cigarettes
happened to be in front of me; I held my glass in its light and lost
myself in the wine's pure depths of mystery and colour; and my mind
wandered to the lusty sunshine of "Lusitanian summers" that was there
imprisoned. I inhaled its fragrance, I accepted its exquisite and
spacious generosity. Wine, like bread and oil--"God's three chief
words"--is a thing of itself--a thing of earth and air and sun--one of
the great natural things, such as the stars and the flowers and the eyes
of a dog. Even the most mouth-twisting new wine of Northern Italy has
its fascination for me, in that it is essentially something apart from
the dust and empty racket of the world; how much more then this radiant
vintage suddenly awakened from its slumber in the darkness of forty
years. So I mused, as I think an honest man is justified in musing,
soberly, over a great wine, when suddenly my left eye caught Adrian's
face. He too was musing; but musing on unhappy things, for a hand seemed
to have swept his face and wiped the joy from it. He was gazing at his
half-emptied glass, with the short stem of which his fingers were
nervously toying. There was a quick snap. The stem broke and the wine
flowed over the cloth. He started, and with a flash the old Adrian came
back, manifesting itself in his smiling dismay, his boyish apology to
Mr. Jornicroft for smashing a rare glass, spoiling the tablecloth and
wasting precious wine. The incident served to disequilibrate, as one
might say, the two discussions on Wilmot and Abyssinia. Coffee came and
liqueurs. I bade farewell to Lusitanian dreams and found myself in heart
to heart conversation with my neighbour on the right, a florid,
simple-minded sugar-broker, a certain next-year's Sheriff of the City of
London, whose consuming ambition was to become a member of the Athenaeum
Club. When I informed him that I was privileged to enter that Valley of
Dry Bones--my late father, an eminent Assyriologist and a disastrous
Master of Fox hounds, had put