“Yes,” rejoined Latrobe, moistening his lips with the topaz-colored liquid—­“it is a little bruised.  I wouldn’t have served it—­better lay it aside for a month or two in the decanter.  Are all your corks down to that, St. George?”

“All the 1810 and ’12—­dry as powder some of them.  I’ve got one over on the sideboard that I’m afraid to tackle”—­here he turned to Clayton:  “Major, you are the only man I know who can pick out a cork properly.  Yes, Todd—­the bottle at the end, next to that Burgundy—­carefully now.  Don’t shake it, and—­”

“Well—­but why don’t you draw the cork yourself, St. George?” interrupted the major, his eyes on Todd, who was searching for the rarity among the others flanking the sideboard.

“I dare not—­that is, I’m afraid to try.  You are the man for a cork like that—­and Todd!—­hand Major Clayton the corkscrew and one of those silver nutpicks.”

The Honorable Prim bent closer.  “What is it, St. George, some old Port?” he asked in a perfunctory way.  Rare old wines never interested him.  “They are an affectation,” he used to say.

“No, Seymour—­it’s really a bottle of the Peter Remsen 1817 Madeira.”

The bottle was passed, every eye watching it with the greatest interest.

“No, never mind the corkscrew, Todd,—­I’ll pick it out,” remarked the major, examining the hazardous cork with the care of a watchmaker handling a broken-down chronometer.  “You’re right, St. George—­it’s too far gone.  Don’t watch me, Seymour, or I’ll get nervous.  You’ll hoodoo it—­you Scotchmen are the devil when it comes to anything fit to drink,” and he winked at Prim.

“How much is there left of it, St. George?” asked Latrobe, watching the major manipulate the nutpick.

“Not a drop outside that bottle.”

“Let us pray—­for the cork,” sighed Latrobe.  “Easy—­E-A-Sy, major—­think of your responsibility, man!”

It was out now, the major dusting the opening with one end of his napkin—­his face wreathed in smiles when his nostrils caught the first whiff of its aroma.

“By Jupiter!—­gentlemen!—­When I’m being snuffed out I’ll at least go like a gentleman if I have a drop of this on my lips.  It’s a bunch of roses—­a veritable nosegay.  Heavens!—­what a bouquet!  Some fresh glasses, Todd.”

Malachi and Todd both stepped forward for the honor of serving it, but the major waved them aside, and rising to his feet began the round of the table, filling each slender pipe-stem glass to the brim.

Then the talk, which had long since drifted away from general topics, turned to the color and sparkle of some of the more famous wines absorbed these many years by their distinguished votaries.  This was followed by the proper filtration and racking both of Ports and Madeiras, and whether milk or egg were best for the purpose—­Kennedy recounting his experience of different vintages both here and abroad, the others joining in, and all with the same