“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.”

“Ah,” said he, shaking his head, “they might interest you more than you suppose.

But I had better be silent, Mr. Coverdale. If this good wine, — though claret, I suppose, is not apt to play such a trick, — but if it should make my tongue run too freely, I could never look you in the face again.”