Down there in the banquet room." The odour of the contents of the vase, spicy, penetrating, delicious, crept out, and he breathed it gratefully.

It was like no odour that he remembered.

This was nothing like Rollo's "good, nitzy Burgundy"-- this was something infinitely more wonderful.

And the odour--the odour was like a draught.

And wasn't this the wine of wines, he asked himself, to give them courage, exultation, the most superb daring when they started up that delectable mountain?
St.
George must know; he would think so too.
"Oh, I say," said Amory to himself, "we must put some strength in Jarvo's bones too--poor little brick!" With that Amory drew the carven stopper, fitted in the little funnel that hung about the neck of the vase, poured a half-finger of the wine in each cup, and lifted one in his hand.