Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a
shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaint bottles:
some with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built
bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle of
promising appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.
'You never tasted this,' said Arthur. 'It's EAU-D'OR--golden water. I
like it on account of its name. It's a delicious name. Water of gold,
golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!'
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the
stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its
old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses, and clinked it,
twice or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he
had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled
it--though not to the brim--and then filled his own.
'Stop, stop; don't drink it yet,' he said, laying his hand on Newman's;
'it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste,
which is ve--ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand, and tease
myself.
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