You should have brought the glasses first.

Bring three; I like to change my glass.

Make haste, will you!" The laird did make haste, smiling at the exigence of his visitor.
Lord Mergwain listened to the glug-glug in the long neck of the decanter as if it had been a song of love, and the moment it was over, was holding the glass to his nose.
"Humph! Not much aroma here!" he growled, "I ought to have made the old fool"-- the laird must have been some fifteen years younger than he.--"set it down before the fire--only what would have become of me while it was thawing?
It's no wonder though! By the time I've been buried as long, I shall want thawing too!" The wine, however, turned out more satisfactory to the palate of the toper than to his nostrils--which in truth, so much had he drunk that day, were at present incapable of doing it justice--and he set himself to enjoy it.

How that should be possible to a man for whom the accompanying dried olives of memory could do so little, I find it difficult to understand.

One would think, to enjoy his wine alone, a man must have either good memories or good hopes: Lord Mergwain had forgotten the taste of hope; and most men would shrink from touching the spring that would set a single scene of such a panorama unrolling itself, as made up the past of Lord Mergwain.