In the _cafe_ of the Savarin, to which he led Uncle Peter, they saw Blythe again. He was seated at one of the tables with a younger man. Uncle Peter and Percival sat down at a table near by. Blythe was having trouble about his wine. "Now, George," he was saying, "give us a real _lively_ pint of wine. You see, yourself, that cork isn't fresh; show it to Frank there, and look at the wine itself--come now, George! Hardly a bubble in it! Tell Frank I'll leave it to him, by Gad! if this bottle is right." The waiter left with the rejected wine, and they heard Blythe resume to his companion, with the relish of a connoisseur: "It's simply a matter of genius, old chap--you understand?--to tell good wine--that is really to discriminate finely. If a chap's not born with the gift he's an ass to think he can acquire it. Sometime you've a setter pup that looks fit--head good, nose all right--all the markings--but you try him out and you know in half an hour he'll never do in the world. Then it's better to take him out back of the barn and shoot him, by Gad! Rather than have his strain corrupt the rest of the kennel. He can't acquire the gift, and no more can a chap acquire this gift. Ah! I was right, was I, George? Look how different that cork is." He sipped the bubbling amber wine with cautious and exacting appreciation. As the waiter would have refilled the glasses, Blythe stopped him. "Now, George, let me tell you something. You're serving at this moment the only gentleman's drink. Do it right, George. Listen! Never refill a gentleman's glass until it's quite empty. Do you know why? Think, George! You pour fresh wine into stale wine and what have you?--neither. I've taught you something, George. Never fill a glass till it's empty." "It beats me," said Uncle Peter, when Blythe and his companion had gone, "how easy them rich codgers get along. That fellow must 'a' made a study of wines, and nothing worse ever bothers him than a waiter fillin' his glass wrong." "You'll be beat more," answered Percival, "when I tell you this slump in copper has just ruined him--wiped out every cent he had. He'd just taken it off the ticker when we found him in Fouts's place there. He's lost a million and a half, every cent he had in the world, and he has a wife and two grown daughters." "Shoo! you don't say! And I'd have sworn he didn't care a row of pins whether copper went up or down. He was a lot more worried about that champagne. Well, well! he certainly is a game loser. I got more respect fur him now. This town does produce thoroughbreds, you can't deny that." "Uncle Peter, she's down to 93, and I've had to margin up a good bit. I didn't think it could get below 95 at the worst." "Oh, I can't bother about them things. Just think of when she booms." "I do--but say--do you think we better pinch our bets?" Uncle Peter finished his glass of beer.