Taste
By Roald Dahl
THERE were six of us to dinner that night at Mike Schofield's house in Lon
don: Mike and his wife and daughter, and my wife and I, and a man called R
ichard Pratt.
Richard Pratt was a famous gourmet. He was president of a small society
known as the Epicures, and each month he circulated privately to its membe
rs a pamphlet on food and wines. He organized dinners where sumptuous dishe
s and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke for fear of harming his p
alate, and when discussing a wine, he had a curious, rather droll habit of
referring to it as though it were a living being. 'A prudent wine,' he woul
d say, 'rather diffident and evasive, but quite prudent.' Or, 'A good-humou
red wine, benevolent and cheerful slightly obscene, perhaps, but none the l
ess good-humoured.'
I had been to dinner at Mike's twice before when Richard Pratt was there
, and on each occasion Mike and his wife had gone out of their way to produc
e a special meal for the famous gourmet. And this one, clearly, was to be no
exception. The moment we entered the dining-room, I could see that the tabl
e was laid for a feast. The tall candles, the yellow roses, the quantity of
shining silver, the three wineglasses to each person, and above all, the fai
nt scent of roasting meat from the kitchen brought the first warm oozings of
saliva to my mouth.
As we sat down, I remembered that on both Richard Pratt's previous visits
Mike had played a little betting game with him over the claret, challenging
him to name its breed and its vintage. Pratt had replied that that should not
be too difficult provided it was one of the great years. Mike had then bet h
im a case of the wine in question that he could not do it. Pratt had accepted
, and had won both times. Tonight I felt sure that the little game would be p
layed over again, for Mike was quite willing to lose the bet in order to prov
e that his wine was good enough to be recognized, and Pratt, for his part, se
emed to take a grave, restrained pleasure in displaying his knowledge.
The meal began with a plate of whitebait, fried very crisp in butter, an
d to go with it there was a Moselle. Mike got up and poured the wine himself
, and when he sat down again, I could see that he was watching Richard Pratt
. He had set the bottle in front of me so that I could read the label. It sa
id, 'Geierslay Ohligsberg, 1945'. He leaned over and whispered to me that Ge
ierslay was a tiny village in the Moselle, almost unknown outside Germany. H
e said that this wine we were drinking was something unusual, that the outpu
t of the vineyard was so small that it was almost impossible for a stranger
to get any of it. He had visited Geierslay personally the previous summer in
order to obtain the few bottles that they had finally allowed him to have.
"I doubt whether anyone else in the country has any of it at the moment,"
he said. I saw him glance again at Richard Pratt. "Great thing about Moselle
," he continued, raising his voice, "it's the perfect wine to serve before a
claret. A lot of people serve a Rhine wine instead, but that's because they d
on't know any better. A Rhine wine will kill a delicate claret, you know that
? It's barbaric to serve a Rhine before a claret. But a Moselle--ah!--a Mosel
le is exactly right."
Mike Schofield was an amiable, middle-aged man, but he was a stockbroke
r. To be precise, he was a jobber in the stock market, and like a number of
his kind, he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed, almost ashamed to find tha
t he had made so much money with so slight a talent. In his heart he knew t
hat he was not really much more than a bookmaker--an unctuous, infinitely r
espectable, secretly unscrupulous bookmaker--and he knew that his friends k
new it, too. So he was seeking now to become a man of culture, to cultivate
a literary and aesthetic taste, to collect paintings, music, books, and al
l the rest of it. His little sermon about Rhine wine and Moselle was a part
of this thing, this culture that he sought.
"A charming little wine, don't you think?" he said. He was still watchin
g Richard Pratt. I could see him give a rapid furtive glance down the table
each time he dropped his head to take a mouthful of whitebait. I could almos
t feel him waiting for the moment when Pratt would take his first sip, and l
ook up from his glass with a smile of pleasure, of astonishment, perhaps eve
n of wonder, and then there would be a discussion and Mike would tell him ab
out the village of Geierslay.
But Richard Pratt did not taste his wine. He was completely engrossed in
conversation with Mike's eighteen-year-old daughter, Louise. He was half tu
rned towards her, smiling at her, telling her, so far as I could gather, som
e story about a chef in a Paris restaurant. As he spoke, he leaned closer an
d closer to her, seeming in his eagerness almost to impinge upon her, and th
e poor girl leaned as far as she could away from him nodding politely, rathe
r desperately, and looking not at his face but at the topmost button of his
dinner jacket.
We finished our fish, and the maid came round removing the plates. When
she came to Pratt, she saw that he had not yet touched his food, so she he
sitated, and Pratt noticed her. He waved her away, broke off his conversati
on, and quickly began to eat, popping the little crisp brown fish quickly i
nto his mouth with rapid jabbing movements of his fork. Then, when he had f
inished, he reached for his glass, and in two short swallows he tipped the
wine down his throat and turned immediately to resume his conversation with
Louise Schofield.
Mike saw it all. I was conscious of him sitting there, very still, contain
ing himself, looking at his guest. His round jovial face seemed to loosen slig
htly and to sag, but he contained himself and was still and said nothing.
Soon the maid came forward with the second course. This was a large roas
t beef. She placed it on the table in front of Mike who stood up and carved
it, cutting the slices very thin, laying them gently on the plates for the m
aid to take around. When he had served everyone, including himself, he put d
own the carving knife and leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the
table.
"Now," he said, speaking to all of us but looking at Richard Pratt. "Now fo
r the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you'll excuse me."
"You go and fetch it, Mike?" I said. "Where is it?"
"In my study, with the cork out--breathing."
"Why the study?"
"Acquiring room temperature, of course. It's been there twenty-four hours
."
"But why the study?"
"It's the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he
was here."
At the sound of his name, Pratt looked round.
"That's right, isn't it?" Mike said.
"Yes," Pratt answered, nodding gravely. "That's right."
"On top of the green filing cabinet in my study," Mike said. "That's the
place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature
. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it."
The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and h
e hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking so
ftly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The l
abel was out of sight, facing downwards. "Now!" he cried as he came towards
the table. "What about this one, Richard? You'll never name this one!"
Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelle
d down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his e
yebrows; a slight supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing ou
tward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.
"You'll never get it," Mike said. "Not in a hundred years."
"A claret?" Richard Pratt asked, condescending.
"Of course."
"I assume, then, that it's from one of the smaller vineyards?"
"Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn't."
"But it's a good year? One of the great years?"
"Yes, I guarantee that."
"Then it shouldn't be too difficult," Richard Pratt said, drawling his w
ords, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something str
ange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of someth
ing evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of une
asiness as I watched him.
"This one is really rather difficult," Mike said. "I won't force you to bet o
n this one."
"Indeed. And why not?" Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, in
tent look.
"Because it's difficult."
"That's not very complimentary to me, you know."
"My dear man," Mike said, "I'll bet you with pleasure, if that's what you
wish."
"It shouldn't be too hard to name it."
"You mean you want to bet?"
"I'm perfectly willing to bet," Richard Pratt said.
"All right, then, we'll have the usual. A case of the wine itself."
"You don't think I'll be able to name it, do you?"
"As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don't," Mike said. He
was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuc
h to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his
next question seemed to betray a certain interest.
"You like to increase the bet?"
"No, Richard. A case is plenty."
"Would you like to bet fifty cases?"
"That would be silly."
Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully
holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whit
eness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.
Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows rais
ed, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. An
d again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the ma
n's face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themsel
ves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdn
ess, hiding.
"So you don't want to increase the bet?"
"As far as I'm concerned, old man, I don't give a damn," Mike said. "I'll
bet you anything you like."
The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike's wife w
as becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment
she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, s
lowly steaming.
"So you'll bet me anything I like?"
"That's what I told you. I'll bet you anything you damn well please, if you
want to make an issue out of it."
"Even ten thousand pounds?"
"Certainly I will, if that's the way you want it." Mike was more confide
nt now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention
.
"So you say I can name the bet?" Pratt asked again.
"That's what I said."
There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me
, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that
we were witness to the offer.
"Mike!" Mrs Schofield said. "Mike, why don't we stop this nonsense and ea
t our food. It's getting cold."
"But it isn't nonsense," Pratt told her evenly. "We're making a little bet."
I noticed the maid standing in the background holding a dish of vegetab
les, wondering whether to come forward with them or not.
"All right then," Pratt said. "I'll tell you what I want you to bet."
"Come on, then," Mike said, rather reckless. "I don't give a damn what it i
s--you're on."
Pratt nodded, and again the little smile moved the corners of his lips, an
d then, quite slowly, looking at Mike all the time, he said, "I want you to be
t me the hand of your daughter in marriage."
Louise Schofield gave a jump. "Hey!" she cried. "No! That's not funny! Lo
ok here, Daddy, that's not funny at all."
"No, dear," her mother said. "They're only joking."
"I'm not joking," Richard Pratt said.
"It's ridiculous," Mike said. He was off balance again now.
"You said you'd bet anything I liked."
"I meant money."
"You didn't say money."
"That's what I meant."
"Then it's a pity you didn't say it. But anyway, if you wish to go back on y
our offer, that's quite all right with me."
"It's not a question of going back on my offer, old man. It's a no-bet a
ny way, because you can't match the stake. You yourself don't happen to have
a daughter to put up against mine in case you lose. And if you had, I would
n't want to marry her."
"I'm glad of that, dear," his wife said.
"I'll put up anything you like," Pratt announced. "My house, for examp
le. How about my house?"
"Which one?" Mike asked, joking now.
"The country one."
"Why not the other one as well?"
"All right then, if you wish it. Both my houses."
At that point I saw Mike pause. He took a step forward and placed the bo
ttle in its basket gently down on the table. He moved the saltcellar to one
side, then the pepper, and then he picked up his knife, studied the blade th
oughtfully for a moment, and put it down again. His daughter, too, had seen
him pause.
"Now, Daddy!" she cried. "Don't be absurd! It's too silly for words. I refus
e to be betted on like this."
"Quite right, dear," her mother said. "Stop it at once, Mike, and sit down
and eat your food."
Mike ignored her. He looked over at his daughter and he smiled, a slow,
fatherly, protective smile. But in his eyes, suddenly, there glimmered a lit
tle triumph. "You know," he said, smiling as he spoke. "You know, Louise, we
ought to think about this a bit."
"Now, stop it, Daddy! I refuse even to listen to you! Why, I've never hear
d anything so ridiculous in my life!"
"No, seriously, my dear. Just wait a moment and hear what I have to say."
"But I don't want to hear it."
"Louise! Please! It's like this. Richard, here, has offered us a serious
bet. He is the one who wants to make it, not me. And if he loses, he will hav
e to hand over a considerable amount of property. Now, wait a minute, my dear
, don't interrupt. The point is this. He cannot possibly win."
"He seems to think he can."
"Now listen to me, because I know what I'm talking about. The expert, wh
en tasting a claret--so long as it is not one of the famous great wines like
Lafite or Latour--can only get a certain way towards naming the vineyard. H
e can, of course, tell you the Bordeaux district from which the wine comes,
whether it is from St Emilion, Pomerol, Graves, or M?doc. But then each dist
rict has several communes, little counties, and each county has many, many s
mall vineyards. It is impossible for a man to differentiate between them all
by taste and smell alone. I don't mind telling you that this one I've got h
ere is a wine from a small vineyard that is surrounded by many other small v
ineyards, and he'll never get it. It's impossible."
"You can't be sure of that," his daughter said.
"I'm telling you I can. Though I say it myself, I understand quite a bit
about this wine business, you know. And anyway, heavens alive, girl, I'm yo
ur father and you don't think I'd let you in for--for something you didn't w
ant, do you? I'm trying to make you some money."
"Mike!" his wife said sharply. "Stop it now, Mike, please!"
Again he ignored her. "If you will take this bet," he said to his daughter
, "in ten minutes you will be the owner of two large houses."
"But I don't want two large houses, Daddy."
"Then sell them. Sell them back to him on the spot. I'll arrange all that fo
r you. And then, just think of it, my dear, you'll be rich! You'll be independen
t for the rest of your life!"
"Oh, Daddy, I don't like it. I think it's silly."
"So do I," the mother said. She jerked her head briskly up and down as
she spoke, like a hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Michael, even
suggesting such a thing! Your own daughter, too!"
Mike didn't even look at her. "Take it!" he said eagerly, staring hard at th
e girl. "Take it, quick! I'll guarantee you won't lose."
"But I don't like it, Daddy."
"Come on, girl. Take it!"
Mike was pushing her hard. He was leaning towards her, fixing her with t
wo hard bright eyes, and it was not easy for the daughter to resist him.
"But what if I lose?"
"I keep telling you, you can't lose. I'll guarantee it."
"Oh, Daddy must I?"
"I'm making you a fortune. So come on now. What do you say, Louise? Al
l right?"
For the last time, she hesitated. Then she gave a helpless little shrug of t
he shoulders and said, "Oh, all right, then. Just so long as you swear there's n
o danger of losing."
"Good!" Mike cried. "That's fine! Then it's a bet!"
"Yes," Richard Pratt said, looking at the girl. "It's a bet."
Immediately, Mike picked up the wine, tipped the first thimbleful into h
is own glass, then skipped excitedly around the table filling up the others.
Now everyone was watching Richard Pratt, watching his face as he reached sl
owly for his glass with his right hand and lifted it to his nose. The man wa
s about fifty years old and he did not have a pleasant face. Somehow, it was
all mouth--mouth and lips--the full, wet lips of the professional gourmet,
the lower lip hanging downward in the centre, a pendulous, permanently open
taster's lip, shaped open to receive the rim of a glass or a morsel of food.
Like a keyhole, I thought, watching it; his mouth is like a large wet keyhole.
Slowly he lifted the glass to his nose. The point of the nose entered th
e glass and moved over the surface of the wine, delicately sniffing. He swir
led the wine gently around in the glass to receive the bouquet. His concentr
ation was intense. He had closed his eyes, and now the whole top half of his
body, the head and neck and chest, seemed to become a kind of huge sensitiv
e smelling-machine, receiving, filtering, analysing the message from the sni
ffing nose.
Mike, I noticed, was lounging in his chair, apparently unconcerned, but h
e was watching every move. Mrs Schofield, the wife, sat prim and upright at t
he other end of the table, looking straight ahead, her face tight with disapp
roval. The daughter, Louise, had shifted her chair away a little, and sidewis
e, facing the gourmet, and she, like her father, was watching closely.
For at least a minute, the smelling process continued; then, without ope
ning his eyes or moving his head, Pratt lowered the glass to his mouth and t
ipped in almost half the contents. He paused, his mouth full of wine, gettin
g the first taste; then, he permitted some of it to trickle down his throat
and I saw his Adam's apple move as it passed by. But most of it he retained
in his mouth. And now, without swallowing again, he drew in through the lips
a thin breath of air which mingled with the fumes of the wine in the mouth
and passed on down into his lungs. He held the breath, blew it out through h
is nose, and finally began to roll the wine around under the tongue, and che
wed it, actually chewed it with his teeth as though it were bread.
It was a solemn, impressive performance, and I must say he did it well.
"Urn," he said, putting down the glass, running a pink tongue over his lip
s, "Urn--yes. A very interesting little wine gentle and gracious, almost femin
ine in the after-taste."
There was an excess of saliva in his mouth, and as he spoke he spat an occ
asional bright speck of it on to the table.
"Now we can start to eliminate," he said. "You will pardon me for doing
this carefully, but there is much at stake. Normally I would perhaps take a
bit of a chance, leaping forward quickly and landing right in the middle of
the vineyard of my choice. But this time--I must move cautiously this time,
must I not?" He looked up at Mike and he smiled, a thick-lipped, wet-lipped
smile. Mike did not smile back.
"First, then, which district in Bordeaux does this wine come from? That's
not too difficult to guess. It is far too light in the body to be from either
St Emilion or Graves. It is obviously a M?doc. There's no doubt about that.
"Now--from which commune in M?doc does it come? That also, by elimination,
should not be too difficult to decide. Margaux? No. It cannot be Margaux. It
has not the violent bouquet of a Margaux. Pauillac? It cannot be Pauillac, eit
her. It is too tender, too gentle and wistful for Pauillac. The wine of Pauill
ac has a character that is almost imperious in its taste. And also, to me, a P
auillac contains just a little pith, a curious dusty, pithy flavour that the g
rape acquires from the soil of the district. No, no. This--this is a very gent
le wine, demure and bashful in the first taste, emerging shyly but quite graci
ously in the second. A little arch, perhaps, in the second taste, and a little
naughty also, teasing the tongue with a trace, just a trace of tannin. Then,
in the after-taste, delightful--consoling and feminine, with a certain blithel
y generous quality that one associates only with the wines of the commune of S
t Julien. Unmistakably this is a St Julien."
He leaned back in his chair, held his hands up level with his chest, and
placed the fingertips carefully together. He was becoming ridiculously Pompou
s, but I thought that some of it was deliberate, simply to mock his host. I f
ound myself waiting rather tensely for him to go on. The girl Louise was ligh
ting a cigarette. Pratt heard the match strike and he turned on her, flaring
suddenly with real anger. "Please!" he said. "Please don't do that! It's a di
sgusting habit, to smoke at table!"
She looked up at him, still holding the burning match in one hand, the b
ig slow eyes settling on his face, resting there a moment, moving away again
, slow and contemptuous. She bent her head and blew out the match, but conti
nued to hold the unlighted cigarette in her fingers.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Pratt said, "but I simply cannot have smoking at tabl
e."
She didn't look at him again.
"Now, let me see--where were we?" he said. "Ah, yes. This wine is from
Bordeaux, from the commune of St Julien, in the district of M?doc. So far,
so good. But now we come to the more difficult part--the name of the vineya
rd itself. For in St Julien there are many vineyards, and as our host so ri
ghtly remarked earlier on, there is often not much difference between the w
ine of one and wine of another. But we shall see."
He paused again, closing his eyes. "I am trying to establish the 'growth',"
he said. "If I can do that, it will be half the battle. Now, let me see. This
wine is obviously not from a first-growth vineyard nor even a second. It is not
a great wine. The quality, the--the--what do you call it?--the radiance, the p
ower, is lacking. But a third growth--that it could be. And yet I doubt it. We
know it is a good year--our host has said so--and this is probably flattering i
t a little bit. I must be careful. I must be very careful here."
He picked up his glass and took another small sip.
"Yes," he said, sucking his lips, "I was right. It is a fourth growth. N
ow I am sure of it. A fourth growth from a very good year from a great year,
in fact. And that's what made it taste for a moment like a third--or even a
second-growth wine. Good! That's better! Now we are closing in! What are th
e fourth-growth vineyards in the commune of St Julien?"
Again he paused, took up his glass, and held the rim against that saggin
g, pendulous lower lip of his. Then I saw the tongue shoot out, pink and nar
row, the tip of it dipping into the wine, withdrawing swiftly again--a repul
sive sight. When he lowered the glass, his eyes remained closed, the face co
ncentrated, only the lips moving, sliding over each other like two pieces of
wet, spongy rubber.
"There it is again!" he cried. "Tannin in the middle taste, and the quic
k astringent squeeze upon the tongue. Yes, yes, of course! Now I have it! Th
e wine comes from one of those small vineyards around Beychevelle. I remembe
r now. The Beychevelle district, and the river and the little harbour that h
as silted up so the wine ships can no longer use it. Beychevelle... could it
actually be a Beychevelle itself? No, I don't think so. Not quite. But it i
s somewhere very close. Ch‰teau Talbot? Could it be Talbot? Yes, it could. W
ait one moment."
He sipped the wine again, and out of the side of my eye I noticed Mike S
chofield and how he was leaning farther and farther forward over the table,
his mouth slightly open, his small eyes fixed upon Richard Pratt.
"No. I was wrong. It is not a Talbot. A Talbot comes forward to you just a
little quicker than this one; the fruit is nearer the surface. If it is a '34,
which I believe it is, then it couldn't be Talbot. Well, well. Let me think. It
is not a Beychevelle and it is not a Talbot, and yet--yet it is so close to bo
th of them, so close, that the vineyard must be almost in between. Now, which c
ould that be?"
He hesitated, and we waited, watching his face. Everyone, even Mike's w
ife, was watching him now. I heard the maid put down the dish of vegetables
on the sideboard behind me, gently, so as not to disturb the silence.
"Ah!" he cried. "I have it! Yes, I think I have it!"
For the last time, he sipped the wine. Then, still holding the glass up n
ear his mouth, he turned to Mike and he smiled, a slow, silky smile, and he s
aid, "You know what this is? This is the little Ch‰teau Branaire-Ducru."
Mike sat tight, not moving.
"And the year, 1934."
We all looked at Mike, waiting for him to turn the bottle around in its ba
sket and show the label.
"Is that your final answer?" Mike said.
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, is it or isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"What was the name again?"
"Ch‰teau Branaire-Ducru. Pretty little vineyard. Lovely old ch‰teau. Kno
w it quite well. Can't think why I didn't recognize it at once."
"Come on, Daddy," the girl said. "Turn it round and let's have a peek. I
want my two houses."
"Just a minute," Mike said. "Wait just a minute." He was sitting very qu
iet, bewilderedlooking, and his face was becoming puffy and pale, as though
all the force was draining slowly out of him.
"Michael!" his wife called sharply from the other end of the table. "What'
s the matter?"
"Keep out of this, Margaret, will you please."
Richard Pratt was looking at Mike, smiling with his mouth, his eyes smal
l and bright. Mike was not looking at anyone.
"Daddy!" the daughter cried, agonized. "But, Daddy, you don't mean to sa
y he guessed it right!"
"Now, stop worrying, my dear," Mike said. "There's nothing to worry abo
ut."
I think it was more to get away from his family than anything else that Mik
e then turned to Richard Pratt and said, "I'll tell you what, Richard. I think
you and I better slip off into the next room and have a little chat."
"I don't want a little chat," Pratt said. "All I want is to see the label
on that bottle." He knew he was a winner now; he had the bearing, the quiet
arrogance of a winner, and I could see that he was prepared to become thoroug
hly nasty if there was any trouble. "What are you waiting for?" he said to Mi
ke. "Go on and turn it round."
Then this happened: the maid, the tiny, erect figure of the maid in her w
hite-and-black uniform, was standing beside Richard Pratt, holding something
out in her hand. "I believe these are yours, sir," she said.
Pratt glanced around, saw the pair of thin horn-rimmed spectacles that s
he held out to him, and for a moment he hesitated. "Are they? Perhaps they a
re, I don't know."
"Yes, sir, they're yours." The maid was an elderly woman--nearer seventy
than sixty--a faithful family retainer of many years' standing. She put the
spectacles down on the table beside him.
Without thanking her, Pratt took them up and slipped them into his top p
ocket, behind the white handkerchief.
But the maid didn't go away. She remained standing beside and slightly
behind Richard Pratt, and there was something so unusual in her manner and
in the way she stood there, small, motionless and erect, that I for one fou
nd myself watching her with a sudden apprehension. Her old grey face had a
frosty, determined look, the lips were compressed, the little chin was out,
and the hands were clasped together tight before her. The curious cap on h
er head and the flash of white down the front of her uniform made her seem
like some tiny, ruffled, white-breasted bird.
"You left them in Mr Schofield's study," she said. Her voice was unnatura
lly, deliberately polite. "On top of the green filing cabinet in his study, s
ir, when you happened to go in there by yourself before dinner."
It took a few moments for the full meaning of her words to penetrate, an
d in the silence that followed I became aware of Mike and how he was slowly
drawing himself up in his chair, and the colour coming to his face, and the
eyes opening wide, and the curl of the mouth, and the dangerous little patch
of whiteness beginning to spread around the area of the nostrils.
"Now, Michael!" his wife said. "Keep calm now, Michael dear! Keep cal
m!"
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