hadn't a prospect of getting rid of my practice here. London--or the
neighbourhood of London--there's the right place for a man like Me.
Well? Where's the wonderful wine? Mind! I'm Tom-Tell-Truth; if I don't
like your French tipple, I shall say so."

The inn possessed no claret glasses; they drank the grand wine in
tumblers as if it had been vin ordinaire.

Mr. Vimpany showed that he was acquainted with the formalities proper
to the ceremony of tasting. He filled his makeshift glass, he held it
up to the light, and looked at the wine severely; he moved the tumbler
to and fro under his nose, and smelt at it again and again; he paused
and reflected; he tasted the claret as cautiously as if he feared it
might be poisoned; he smacked his lips, and emptied his glass at a
draught; lastly, he showed some consideration for his host's anxiety,
and pronounced sentence on the wine.

"Not so good as you think it, sir. But nice light claret; clean and
wholesome. I hope you haven't given too much for it?"

Thus far, Hugh had played a losing game patiently. His reward had come
at last. After what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning
card safe in his own hand.

The bad dinner was soon over. No soup, of course; fish, in the state of
preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that
rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said,
"stranger, don't eat us"; pudding that would have produced a sense of
discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous English
cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the United States, and