the
veins with a sly wink at us through eyelets. Hussy vintages swim to a
cosset. We go to Port, mark you!

Sir Rebus sipped with an affectionate twirl of thumb at the glass's
stem. He said "One scents the cobwebs."

"Catches in them," Euphemia flung at him.

"I take you. Bacchus laughs in the web."

"Unspun but for Pallas."

"A lady's jealousy."

"Forethought, rather."

"Brewed in the paternal pate. Grant it!"

"For a spring in accoutrements."

Sir Rebus inclined gravely. Port precludes prolongment of the riposte.

She replenished glasses. Deprecation yielded. "A step," she said, "and
we are in time for the First Lesson."

"This," he agreed, "is a wine."

"There are blasphemies in posture. One should sit to it."

"Perhaps." He sank to commodious throne of leather indicated by her
finger.

Again she filled for him. "This time, no heel-taps," she was
imperative. "The Litany demands basis."

"True." He drained, not repelling the decanter placed at his elbow.

"It is a wine," he presently repeated with a rolling tongue over it.

"Laid down by my great-grandfather. Cloistral."

"Strange," he said, examining the stopper, "no date. Antediluvian.
Sound, though."

He drew out his note-book. "_The senses_" he wrote, "_are internecine.
They shall have learned esprit de corps before they enslave us._" This
was one of his happiest flings to general from particular. "_Visual
distraction cries havoc to ultimate delicacy of palate_" would but
have pinned us a butterfly best a-hover; nor even so should we have
had truth of why the aphorist, closing note-book and nestling back of
head against that of chair, closed eyes also.

As by some such law as lurks in meteorological toy for our guidance
in climes close-knit with Irony for bewilderment, making egress of old
woman synchronise inevitably with old man's ingress, or the other way
about, the force that closed the aphorist's eye-lids parted his lips
in degree according. Thus had Euphemia, erect on hearth-rug, a cavern
to gaze down into. Outworks of fortifying ivory cast but denser
shadows into the inexplorable. The solitudes here grew murmurous. To
and fro through secret passages in the recesses leading up deviously
to lesser twin caverns of nose above, the gnomes Morphean went about
their business, whispering at first, but presently bold to wind horns
in unison--Roland-wise, not less.

Euphemia had an ear for it; whim also to construe lord and master
relaxe