The wine appeared, seemed to blink owlishly through the facets of its decanter, like some hoary captive dragged forth into light after years of subterraneous darkness—­something querulous in the sudden liberation of it.  Or say that it gleamed benignant from its tray, steady-borne by the hands of reverence, as one has seen Infallibility pass with uplifting of jewelled fingers through genuflexions to the Balcony.  Port has this in it:  that it compels obeisance, master of us; as opposed to brother and sister wines wooing us with a coy flush in the gold of them to a cursory tope or harlequin leap shimmering up 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.