"A little coarse now and then--but that comes of his early life, no doubt." Hodges waited his chance and again launched out; this time it was upon the various kinds of wines his cellar contained--their cost--who had approved of them--how impossible it was to duplicate some of them, especially some Johannesburg of '74.
"Forty-two dollars a bottle--not pressed in the ordinary way--just the weight of the grapes in the basket in which they are gathered in the vineyard, and what naturally drips through is caught and put aside," etc.
Breen winced.

First his truffles were criticised, and now his pet Johannesburg that Parkins was pouring into special glasses--cooled to an exact temperature--part of a case, he explained to Nixon, who sat on his right, that Count Mosenheim had sent to a friend here.

Something must be done to head Hodges off or there was no telling what might happen.

The Madeira was the thing.

He knew that was all right, for Purviance had found it in Baltimore--part of a private cellar belonging some time in the past to either the Swan or Thomas families--he could not remember which.
The redheads were now in order, with squares of fried hominy, and for the moment Hodges held his peace.