The vintner flushed. "I have that right," with an air which rather
mystified Carmichael.

"That explains everything. I do not recollect seeing you before in the
Black Eagle."

"I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in
the valleys late in September."

"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as
they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the
Rhine."

"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any
France in the future?"

Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will
always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not
die."

"You are fond of France?"

"Very."

"Do you think it wise to say so here?"

"I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions."

"The American consul," repeated the vintner.