"Mr. Moodie," said I, "shall we lunch together? And would you like
to drink a glass of wine?"
His one eye gleamed. He bowed; and it impressed me that he grew to
be more of a man at once, either in anticipation of the wine, or as a
grateful response to my good fellowship in offering it.
"With pleasure," he replied.
The bar-keeper, at my request, showed us into a private room, and
soon afterwards set some fried oysters and a bottle of claret on the
table; and I saw the old man glance curiously at the label of the
bottle, as if to learn the brand.
"It should be good wine," I remarked, "if it have any right to its
label."
"You cannot suppose, sir," said Moodie, with a sigh, "that a poor old
fellow like me knows any difference in wines."
And yet, in his way of handling the glass, in his preliminary snuff
at the aroma, in his first cautious sip of the wine, and the
gustatory skill with which he gave his palate the full advantage of
it, it was impossible not to recognize the connoisseur.
"I fancy, Mr. Moodie," said I, "you are a much better judge of wines
than I have yet learned to be. Tell me fairly,--did you never drink
it where the grape grows?"
"How should that have been, Mr. Coverdale?" answered old Moodie shyly;
but then he took courage, as it were, and uttered a feeble little
laugh. "The flavor of this wine," added he, "and its perfume still
more than its taste, makes me remember that I was once a young man."
"I wish, Mr. Moodie," suggested I,--not that I greatly cared about it,
however, but was only anxious to draw him into some talk about
Priscilla and Zenobia,--"I wish, while we sit over our wine, you
would favor me with a few of those youthful reminiscences.
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