"Oh, I say, sir--" burst out Rollo, more upset over the loss of the
wine than he was alarmed at the occurrence. If it came to losing a
good, nitzy Burgundy, Rollo knew what that meant.
"Adon," cried Jarvo, shaking Amory's shoulders, "did you taste the
liquor--tell me--the liquor--did you taste?"
Amory shook his head. Jarvo's face and the hovering Rollo and the
whole room were enveloped in mist, and the wine was hot on his lips
where the cup had touched them. Yet while he stood there, with that
permeating fragrance in the air, it came to him vaguely that he had
never in his life known a more perfectly delightful moment. If this,
he said to himself vaguely, was what they meant by wine in the old
days, then so far as his own experience went, the best "nitzy"
Burgundy was no more than a flabby, _vin ordinaire_ beside it. Not
that "flabby" was what he meant to call it, but that was the word
that came. For he felt as if no less than six men were flowing in
his veins, he summed it up to himself triumphantly.
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