It is a pity cats don't drink champagne.

I would have made you to-night as drunk as Bacchus.

We drink, and in the stillness the glouglou of his tongue forms a bass to the elfin notes of the Pommery in the soda-water tumbler.
Ha! Twin purveyors of the milk of paradise, I wonder like Omar what you buy one-half so precious as the stuff you sell.

Motor-cars for Mrs.
Pommery and cakes for the little Grenos?
I do not like to regard you as common humans addicted to silk hats and umbrellas and the other vices of respectability.

Ye are rather beneficent demigods, Castor and Pollux of the vine, dream entities who pour from the sunset lands of Nowhere the liquid gold of life's joyousness.
A few words scribbled on this telegraph form would bring her here tomorrow night.