“You will not object to drink it, sir, to the health of your grandchildren.  And may you live to toast them in it on their marriage-day!”

“You colour the idea of a prolonged existence in seductive hues.  Ha!  It is a wine for Tithonus.  This wine would speed him to the rosy Morning—­aha!”

“I will undertake to sit you through it up to morning,” said Sir Willoughby, innocent of the Bacchic nuptiality of the allusion.

Dr Middleton eyed the decanter.  There is a grief in gladness, for a premonition of our mortal state.  The amount of wine in the decanter did not promise to sustain the starry roof of night and greet the dawn.  “Old wine, my friend, denies us the full bottle!”

“Another bottle is to follow.”

“No!”

“It is ordered.”

“I protest.”

“It is uncorked.”

“I entreat.”

“It is decanted.”

“I submit.  But, mark, it must be honest partnership.  You are my worthy host, sir, on that stipulation.  Note the superiority of wine over Venus!—­I may say, the magnanimity of wine; our jealousy turns on him that will not share!  But the corks, Willoughby.  The corks excite my amazement.”

“The corking is examined at regular intervals.  I remember the occurrence in my father’s time.  I have seen to it once.”

“It must be perilous as an operation for tracheotomy; which I should assume it to resemble in surgical skill and firmness of hand, not to mention the imminent gasp of the patient.”

A fresh decanter was placed before the doctor.

He said:  “I have but a girl to give!” He was melted.

Sir Willoughby replied:  “I take her for the highest prize this world affords.”

“I have beaten some small stock of Latin into her head, and a note of Greek.  She contains a savour of the classics.  I hoped once . . .  But she is a girl.  The nymph of the woods is in her.  Still she will bring you her flower-cup of Hippocrene.  She has that aristocracy—­the noblest.  She is fair; a Beauty, some have said, who judge not by lines.  Fair to me, Willoughby!  She is my sky.  There were applicants.  In Italy she was besought of me.  She has no history.  You are the first heading of the chapter.  With you she will have her one tale, as it should be.  ‘Mulier tum bene olet’, you know.  Most fragrant she that smells of naught.  She goes to you from me, from me alone, from her father to her husband.  ‘Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis.’” He murmured on the lines to, “‘Sic virgo, dum . . .’  I shall feel the parting.  She goes to one who will have my pride in her, and more.  I will add, who will be envied.  Mr. Whitford must write you a Carmen Nuptiale.”

The heart of the unfortunate gentleman listening to Dr. Middleton set in for irregular leaps.  His offended temper broke away from the image of Clara, revealing her as he had seen her in the morning beside Horace De Craye, distressingly sweet; sweet with the breezy radiance of an English soft-breathing day; sweet with sharpness of young sap.  Her eyes, her lips, her fluttering dress that played happy mother across her bosom, giving peeps of the veiled twins; and her laughter, her slim figure, peerless carriage, all her terrible sweetness touched his wound to the smarting quick.