You are still on the other side of the Alps, of the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you.

Clear your brow, O painter of Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam of life! We are in the land of Horace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--Seriously, do you never relax ?" "Oh yes.

You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at Stornoway." "Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North Cape.
How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no more than a pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech.

Take a glass with me to the health of your enchanting ward." "Please to command your tongue," growled Mallard, with a look that was not to be mistaken.
"I beg your pardon.

It shall be to the health of that superb girl we saw in the Mercato.