"No, no!" said James, the tips of his ears quivering with vehemence, and

his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone. "Look here, Warmson, you

go to the inner cellar, and on the middle shelf of the end bin on the

left you'll see seven bottles; take the one in the centre, and don't

shake it. It's the last of the Madeira I had from Mr. Jolyon when we

came in here--never been moved; it ought to be in prime condition still;

but I don't know, I can't tell."

"Very good, sir," responded the withdrawing Warmson.

"I was keeping it for our golden wedding," said James suddenly, "but I

shan't live three years at my age."

"Nonsense, James," said Emily, "don't talk like that."

"I ought to have got it up myself," murmured James, "he'll shake it as

likely as not." And he sank into silent recollection of long moments

among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good smell of wine-soaked

corks, which had been appetiser to so many feasts. In the wine from that

cellar was written the history of the forty odd years since he had come

to the Park Lane house with his young bride, and of the many generations

of friends and acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its

depleted bins preserved the record of family festivity--all the

marriages, births, deaths of his kith and kin. And when he was gone

there it would be, and he didn't know what would become of it. It'd be

drunk or spoiled, he shouldn't wonder!

From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, followed

very soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest.

They went down arm-in-arm--James with Imogen, the debutante, because

his pretty grandchild cheered him; Soames with Winifred; Emily with Val,

whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened. This was to be a proper

full 'blowout' with 'fizz' and port! And he felt in need of it, after

what he had done that day, as yet undivulged. After the first glass or

two it became pleasant to have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece

of sensational patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to

display--for his pleasure in what he had done for his Queen and Country

was so far entirely personal. He was now a 'blood,' indissolubly

connected with guns and horses; he had a right to swagger--not, of

course, that he was going to. He should just announce it quietly, when

there was a pause. And, glancing down the menu, he determined on 'Bombe

aux fraises' as the proper moment; there would be a certain solemnity

while they were eating that. Once or twice before they reached that rosy

summit of the dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather

was never told anything! Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and

looking jolly fit! Besides, he ought to be pleased at this set-off to

the disgrace of the divorce. The sight of his uncle opposite, too, was

a sharp incentive. He was so far from being a sportsman that it would be

worth a lot to see his face. Besides, better to tell his mother in this

way than privately, which might upset them both! He was sorry for her,

but after all one couldn't be expected to feel much for others when one

had to part from Holly.




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