I sat down alone to dinner one October day when the
rusty leaves were falling and scuttling on the
boulevard, and the minds of impressionable men inclined
in about an equal degree towards sadness and
conviviality. The restaurant was no great place, but
boasted a considerable cellar and a long printed list
of vintages. This I was perusing with the double zest
of a man who is fond of wine and a lover of beautiful
names, when my eye fell (near the end of the card) on
that not very famous or familiar brand, Roussillon. I
remembered it was a wine I had never tasted, ordered a
bottle, found it excellent, and when I had discussed
the contents, called (according to my habit) for a
final pint. It appears they did not keep Roussillon in
half-bottles. "All right," said I, "another bottle."
The tables at this eating-house are close together; and
the next thing I can remember, I was in somewhat loud
conversation with my nearest neighbours. From these I
must have gradually extended my attentions; for I have
a clear recollection of gazing about a room in which
every chair was half turned round and every face turned
smilingly to mine.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60