“Over anything that is good of its kind,” he amplified. “Such success as I have had at the bar, I owe to that capacity. To me nothing can be more thrilling than the sudden sight of human character. This perception that I have had--this beautiful sight that I have seen---- Perhaps, John, you will let me toast it with your wonderful wine?” At his host’s encouraging nod, Holt arose and fixed his eyes on the frieze with the twitching smile of inspiration. After a pause, he began: “I do not give you Wine, Woman and Song. No, nothing so new as that! But it is a song I give--a song of woman and wine. In varying vintages we drink inspiration from the sweetness or tartness, the smoothness, gentleness and headiness of women--we men. From the Cocktail Girl, of whom a little is enough, to good old Mother Cordial, who calms us with her seasoned satisfactions, we have much to enjoy. Here is Champagne.” Lifting from beside his plate the tall-stemmed glass half-full of bubbling amber, he bowed toward the yellow velvet vision. “How it sparkles, infects our moods, dares us into animation! If only it would never let us down to normal again--would never cease to sparkle--Champagne!” As if by chance, his boyish smile left Catherine’s pleased face and strayed Dolores’ way. With a kiss of the rim, he replaced the tall glass upon the cloth. His fingers loosed its slender stem; found a smaller glass; raised it. “Once in a lifetime you meet a woman who is like this deep red Burgundy. Does it need to speak--the wine--to boast its color, its fragrance, its power? See, it is too rich for the eye to penetrate; there is not a bubble in it to suggest its life; it is topped by no froth. All too quietly, it offers us sensation. And we sip of it--delight. And we drink deep--intoxication. “The woman who is like the deep, red wine--once in a lifetime we meet her. No need for her to laugh with us, to coquette, even to speak. Her personality is an alluring hue. She gives off a fragrance of soul that drowns gross thought. Without words she promises all emotions--life. She, like the wine, needs only to be. “I do not give you Wine, Woman and Song; nothing so new as that. I sing, friends, an older song--_the_ woman, man’s wine!” Silence held the little group as Holt ceased to speak. With his left hand he patted the bald spot upon his head, as if doubtful of the wisdom of having broached his “beautiful perception.” Then, slowly, his smile reappeared, as though from frank pleasure over a creditable performance. With lifted glass he turned to their host. Dolores also turned. But John Cabot did not meet their gaze--either her own or that of his friend. And he did not speak. He was, however, the first to drain his Burgundy. The girl wondered at the gleam in his eyes. Never had she seen him look that way before. It seemed soon for even so excellent a potion to have had effect. CHAPTER XIV