"
"Fill up."
The servant filled, screwing up his mouth.
Old Heythorp drank, and put the glass down empty with a sigh. He had
been faithful to his principles, finished the bottle before touching
the sweet--a good bottle--of a good brand! And now for the souffle!
Delicious, flipped down with the old sherry! So that holy woman was
going to a ball, was she! How deuced funny! Who would dance with a
dry stick like that, all eaten up with a piety which was just sexual
disappointment? Ah! yes, lots of women like that--had often noticed
'em--pitied 'em too, until you had to do with them and they made you as
unhappy as themselves, and were tyrants into the bargain. And he asked:
"What's the savoury?"
"Cheese remmykin, sir."
His favourite.
"I'll have my port with it--the 'sixty-eight." The man stood gazing with
evident stupefaction. He had not expected this. The old man's face was
very flushed, but that might be the bath. He said feebly:
"Are you sure you ought, sir?"
"No, but I'm going to."
"Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Heythorp, Sir?"
"If you do, you can leave my service."
"Well, Sir, I don't accept the responsibility."
"Who asked you to?"
"No, Sir.
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