Mr. Simeon Fenellan at
their sipping of the venerable wine.

Seated in a cosy corner, near the grey City window edged with a sooty
maze, they praised the wine, in the neuter and in the feminine; that for
the glass, this for the widow-branded bottle: not as poets hymning;
it was done in the City manner, briefly, part pensively, like men
travelling to the utmost bourne of flying flavour (a dell in infinite
nether), and still masters of themselves and at home.

Such a wine, in its capturing permeation of us, insists on being for a
time a theme.

'I wonder!' said Mr. Radnor, completely restored, eyeing his
half-emptied second glass and his boon-fellow.

'Low!' Mr. Fenellan shook his head.

'Half a dozen dozen left?'

'Nearer the half of that. And who's the culprit?'

'Old days! They won't let me have another dozen out of the house now.'

'They'll never hit on such another discovery in their cellar, unless
they unearth a fifth corner.'

'I don't blame them for making the price prohibitive. And sound as
ever!'

Mr. Radnor watched the deliberate constant ascent of bubbles through
their rose-topaz transparency. He drank. That notion of the dish of
turtle was an inspiration of the right: he ought always to know it for
the want of replenishment when such a man as he went quaking. His latest
experiences of himself were incredible; but they passed, as the dimples
of the stream. He finished his third glass. The bottle, like the
cellar-wine, was at ebb: unlike the cellar-wine, it could be set flowing
again: He prattled, in the happy ignorance of compulsion:

'Fenellan, remember, I had a sort of right to the wine--to the best I
could get; and this Old Veuve, more than any other, is a bridal wine! We
heard of Giulia Sanfredini's marriage to come off with the Spanish Duke,
and drank it to the toast of our little Nesta's godmother. I 've told
you. We took the girl to the Opera, when quite a little one--that
high:--and I declare to you, it was marvellous! Next morning after
breakfast, she plants herself in the middle of the room, and strikes
her attitude for song, and positively, almost with the Sanfredini's
voice--illusion of it, you know,--trills us out more than I could have
believed credible to be recollected by a child. But I've told you the
story. We called her Fredi from that day. I sent the diva, with
excuses and compliments, a nuptial present-necklace, Roman goldwork,
locket-pendant, containing sunny curl, and belo