“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....”

“Well, get it, then; and don’t be an ass.”

“Yes, Sir.”  If the old man were not humoured he would have a fit, perhaps!

And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths.  He felt happy, his whole being lined and warmed and drowsed—­and there was more to come!  What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good dinner?  Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little?  No, they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed.  A man had nothing but his pluck—­they only tried to undermine it, and make him squeal for help.  He could see his precious doctor throwing up his hands:  “Port after a bottle of champagne—­you’ll die of it!” And a very good death too—­none better.  A sound broke the silence of the closed-up room.  Music?  His daughter playing the piano overhead.  Singing too!  What a trickle of a voice!  Jenny Lind!  The Swedish nightingale—­he had never missed the nights when she was singing—­Jenny Lind!

“It’s very hot, sir.  Shall I take it out of the case?”

Ah!  The ramequin!

“Touch of butter, and the cayenne!”

“Yes, sir.”

He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better.  With cheese—­port!  He drank one glass, and said: 

“Help me to my chair.”

And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell on the little low table by his side, he murmured: 

“Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes.”

To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had finished.  As old Horace said: