"
"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.
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