“Nothing, Granny. Now you go and sit in the gallery, and presently we’ll have our game of whist.” “But I want to have my dinner with you,” said she. Something ugly and impatient gleamed in those blue eyes of his for a moment, but it sheathed itself again. “Nonsense, Granny,” he said. “You’ve had your dinner.” Violet had come round the table. “Won’t you let her stop with you,” she said quietly. “She’s been looking out for you all the evening.” “No, darling, I won’t,” he said. “Not much competition for her, eh, Vi? Take her away.... Go on, Granny, Violet’s waiting for you. Uncle Ronald and I will come after you when we’ve had a glass of wine together.” The door closed behind the women, and Colin sat down again. “Granny seems to be immortal,” he observed. “That’s a great score. She’ll see you and me into our graves, Uncle Ronald. The gout’s better, I’m glad to see, and permits you to have port again. Have some more?” “Well, perhaps another glass, while you’re eating your dinner,” said Ronald. He was never very comfortable alone with Colin, but he wanted port. Though not a person of very quick perception, he felt as if he was in the presence of some lithe fierce creature, which might suddenly snap at him. When other people were there, they served as bars. “That’s right,” said Colin. “You see if you can get through a bottle of port by the time I’ve finished dinner. I’ll bet that you can. Aren’t we a sadly degenerated race, Uncle Ronald? I hardly ever touch wine. Tell me about the old days when you and my grandfather used to sit soaking at this table hour after hour. Bring another bottle of port,” he said to the butler. “No, indeed, Colin, there’s plenty here,” said Ronald. “Just one glass more for me, and then I’ve done.” Colin felt himself scintillating with evil purpose. The atmosphere, the environment of Stanier was always charged with currents that vivified and stimulated him. If no more subtle entertainment offered itself at the moment, he could at least induce Uncle Ronald to drink more than was good for him. Perhaps he would get tipsy, perhaps his gout would begin jabbing him again: it would all afford amusement. “Oh, I know what your one glass more means,” he said. “Besides you’re going to Aix soon, and that will set it right. I think I must learn to drink, for there’s clearly pleasure in it, and it is criminal to deny oneself a pleasure. Ah, there’s the fresh bottle. Sunshine, you know, Uncle Ronald. It was the sunshine that brooded over some vineyard before I was born that produced that wine. Without the sunshine there would never have been any wine that year. There’s romance for you! That’s not a bottle of wine really: it’s a bottle of sunshine and the warm air of the South. Just what’s so good for gout.” Ronald took a few seconds to follow the course of this admirable reasoning; then he gave an appreciative chuckle.