Mechanically, though he knew that he
carried no flask, he felt conscientiously through his pockets--a
habit of the boy in perplexity which never deserts the man
in crises. In the inside pocket of the coat that he was
wearing--Amory's coat--his fingers suddenly closed about
something made of glass. He seized it and drew it forth.
It was a little vase of rock-crystal, ornamented with gold
medallions, covered with exquisite and precise engraving of great
beauty and variety of design--gryphons, serpents, winged discs, men
contending with lions. St. George stared at it uncomprehendingly. In
the press of events of the last eight-and-forty hours Amory had
quite forgotten to mention to him the prince's intended gift of
wine, almost three thousand years old, sealed in Phoenicia.
St. George drew the stopper. In an instant an odour, spicy,
penetrating, delicious, saluted him and gave life to the dead air of
the room. For a moment he hesitated. He knew that the flask had not
been among Amory's belongings and that he himself had never seen it
before.
Pages:
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383