Wine, then, was like food or music, or poetry--or good-fellowship--something to be enjoyed in its place--and never out of it.

For all that, he had allowed no drop of anything to fall into his own glass--a determination which Todd understood perfectly, but which he as studiously chose to ignore--going through all the motions of filling the glass so as not to cause Marse Harry any embarrassment.

Even the "1817" was turned down by the young man with a parrying gesture which caught the alert eyes of the major.
"You are right, my boy," the bon vivant said sententiously.

"It is a wine for old men.

But look after your stomach, you dog--or you may wake up some fine morning and not be able to know good Madeira from bad.