A WATER DRINKER
was renowned I had been received with open arms and bounteous glasses. The last bottle of the ’47 port had gone down my throat of throats as a nation’s darling is borne with solemn requiem to ancient abbey or historic cathedral. The mysteries of Bordeaux and Burgundian vintages had been my special delight. I had been found in the front rank at the gathering of the ’89 champagnes. I had already girded my palatal loins for the crucial testing and sifting of the ’93 clarets. My verdict had been sought expectantly and received respectfully. My obiter dictum that the old Madeira had sunk into his dotage and had become tart and peevish degraded him instanter into the second-class, so that he became the drink of those who were yet young and uninitiate. And now
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