that of Vienna. Jools was an aristocrat of aristocrats, and one versed in the ways of his order would almost have divined it from the amiable humility with which he came forward to receive one of other clay.
"How do, Jools?" said Northcote's companion, with his inimitable gift of manner. "Nasty night. Let us have a quart of your Château Margaux. What was that you gave me before?"
Jools screwed up his furtive brown eyes in deep contemplation. "Et would be a seventy-one, sare," he said, rubbing softly a forefinger along his chin.
"I don't know what it was," said Mr. Whitcomb, royally, "and I don't care, so long as it is the best you have in the place."
An air of magnificence which prosperity had conferred upon the solicitor touched a chord in the proud soul of Jools.
"I haf a seventy-three, sare," said this aristocrat, with a not too ductile absence of condescension, which he reserved for the society of his equals.
"That sounds all right," said the solicitor. "We still number you among the few eminent Christians we have in London at the present time."
Jools bowed and smiled softly, but an expression of sorrow was seen to overspread his mat complexion.
"Ef I had known before, sare, I would haf had it decanted."
"We must all abase ourselves before the despotism of necessity," said the solicitor's hollow-eyed companion, who was already under the stimulus of an intense anticipation. "She has reverence for nothing. Even your Château Margaux '73, which
