Mr. Vimpany returned from his medical errand, thoroughly well satisfied
with himself.
"The Mayor's mother has reason to thank you, sir," he announced. "If
you hadn't hurried me away, the wretched old creature would have been
choked. A regular stand-up fight, by Jupiter, between death and the
doctor!--and the doctor has won! Give me the reward of merit. Pass the
bottle."
He took up the decanter, and looked at it.
"Why, what have you been about?" he asked. "I made up my mind that I
should want the key of the cellar when I came back, and I don't believe
you have drunk a drop in my absence. What does it mean?"
"It means that I am not worthy of your sherry," Mountjoy answered. "The
Spanish wines are too strong for my weak digestion."
Mr. Vimpany burst into one of his explosions of laughter. "You miss the
landlady's vinegar--eh?"
"Yes, I do! Wait a minute, doctor; I have a word to say on my
side--and, like you, I mean what I say. The landlady's vinegar is some
of the finest Chateau Margaux I have ever met with--thrown away on
ignorant people who are quite unworthy of it."
The doctor's natural insolence showed itself. "You have bought this
wonderful wine, of course?" he said satirically.
"That," Mountjoy answered, "is just what I have done."
For once in his life, Mr. Vimpany's self-sufficient readiness of speech
failed him. He stared at his guest in dumb amazement. On this occasion,
Mountjoy improved the opportunity to good purpose. Mr. Vimpany accepted
with the utmost readiness an invitation to dine on the next day at the
inn. But he made a condition. "In case I don't agree with you about
that Chateau--what-you-call-it," he said, "you won't mind my sending
home for a bottle of sherry?"
The next event of the day was a visit to the most interesting monument
of antiquity in the town. In the absence of the doctor, caused by
professional engagements, Miss Henley took Mountjoy to see the old
church--and Mrs. Vimpany accompanied them, as a mark of respect to Miss
Henley's friend.
When there was a chance of being able to speak confidentially, Iris was
eager in praising the doctor's wife. "You can't imagine, Hugh, how
agreeable she has been, and how entirely she has convinced me that I
was wrong, shamefully wrong, in thinking of her as I did. She sees that
you dislike her, and yet she speaks so nicely of you. 'Your clever
friend enjoys your society,' she said; 'pray accompany me when I take
him to see the church.' How unselfish!"