In spite of polite protests, she rang for Myra, and to Myra she gave instructions. And presently Myra, trained from girlhood in the nice conduct of wine, appeared with the cob-webbed bottle, white splash uppermost, tenderly tilted in unshaking hands. Trivett took it from her reverently while she sought corkscrew and napkin and glasses, and when she placed the napkin pad on the table, and Trivett took the corkscrew, Fenmarch, with the air of one participating in a holy rite, laid both hands on the sacred bottle and watched the extraction of the cork as one who awaits the manifestation of the god. The brows of both men were bent, and they held their breaths. Then the cork came out clear and true, and the broad red face of Trivett was irradiated by an all-pervading smile. It faded into an instant’s seriousness while he smelled the cork—it reappeared triumphant as he held the corkscrew, with cork impaled, beneath the nostrils of Fenmarch. Fenmarch sniffed and smiled and bowed. “Olivia, my dear——” said Trivett with a gesture. Olivia, understanding, held the wine-glasses. The wine flowed clear, gold dissolved in rubies—is there a colour on earth like the colour of old port? “Stop! Only a sip for me,” she laughed. “Nonsense. It was only for the sake of her health that we let her open it—eh, Fenmarch?” But Fenmarch, eager on the pouring, cried: “Don’t move your glass, for God’s sake, Olivia. You’ll waste it.” But Trivett, with a false air of chivalry, let her off with half a glass. Fenmarch refolded the napkin, so as to give the temporarily abandoned bottle a higher tilt. The two men smelled the wine. For the first time since the awful night of disillusion, Olivia felt happy. These old dears! It was like stuffing greedy children with chocolates. The two elderly gentlemen raised their glasses and bowed to her. Then sipped. “Ah!” said Fenmarch. “H’m,” said Trivett, with the knitted brow of puzzlement. Then, suddenly the grey, badgery little man who had never been known to laugh violently, gave Olivia the shock of her life. He thrust his chair from the table and smacked his thigh and exploded in a high-pitched cackle of hilarity. “He can’t taste it! He’s been drinking whisky! He has paralysed his palate. I’ve been waiting for it!” He beat the air with his hands. “Oh Lord! That’s good!” Trivett’s fat jowl fell. “——” he gasped, regardless of Olivia. “So I have.” “Moral——” cried the delighted Fenmarch. “Never try to steal a march on your wife—it doesn’t pay, my boy. It doesn’t pay.” And he inhaled the aroma of the Heaven-given wine, and drank with the serenity of the man who has never offended the high gods. Olivia, anxious to console, said to Mr. Trivett: “I’ll send you some round to-morrow.” Trivett spread out his great arms. “My dear, it’ll have to settle. If moved, it won’t be fit to drink for a couple of months.”