"I don’t agree with you," said the host. "We are in very deep water now," laughed Francis. "I, myself, think the finest of the old dry Madeiras were once sugary maidens." "Nonsense," said Hamilton, passing the next wine. "With the sun." "Why with the sun?" said Chestnut, infinitely delighted by these little social superstitions and the odd phrases. "Because it sours a wine to send it to the right," said Wilmington, dryly. "That is a fact, sir,—a well-known fact." "Droll, that," returned Chestnut. "I wonder whence came that notion." "It is a pretty old one; possibly Roman. The Greeks passed their drink to the right. Wine is a strange fluid. It has its good and its bad days." "I am willing to say its moods," added Hamilton. "I suppose," continued the older man, "that you will be entirely skeptical if I assure you that for women to go into a wine-room is pretty surely to injure the wine." "Indeed, is that so?" returned Chestnut. "I am not surprised. In France women are not allowed to enter the great cheese-caves." "Wine is very sensitive," said Francis. "I give you this story for what it is worth: "A planter in the South told me that once two blacks were arranging bottles in his wine-room, and quarreled. One stabbed the other. The fellow died, and his blood ran over the floor; and from that day the wines in that room were bitter. You know that bitterness is one form of the sicknesses to which Madeira is liable." This amazing tale was received with entire tranquillity by all save Chestnut, whose education was progressing. Meanwhile another decanter went round. "I congratulate you," cried Wilmington, as he set down his glass. "A perfect grape-juice—new to me too. High up, sir; very high up"; and refilling his glass, he sent on the coaster. "Observe, Chestnut, the refinement of it; neither the sweet nor the bouquet is too obvious. It is like a well-bred lady. Observe what a gamut of delicate flavors; none are excessive. And then at last there remains in the mouth a sort of fugitive memory of its delightfulness." "As one remembers the lady when she is gone," said Francis. "Thanks," said the old gentleman, bowing. "Am I wrong," said Chestnut, "in fancying that there is here a faint flavor of orange-water?" "Well, well!" said Wilmington. "And this man says he has no palate! That is the charm of these lovely wines: they are many things to many lovers—have for each a separate enchantment. I thought it was a rose-water taste; but no matter, you may be correct. But Hamilton can give you a better wine. No grape-juice can compete with the best Madeiras. In wine and man the noblest social flavors come with years. It is pure waste to ask to dinner any man under forty." "And now fill your glasses," said Hamilton. "Are you all charged? Your health, gentlemen! I waited for this wine;" and he bent his head to each in turn.