But the food! My mouth waters now at the thought of it. No crazy
French concoctions of frothy indigestibleness; but good, sweet
cooking--the supper one gets among the old families of Maryland or
Virginia. It took me back more than a score of years to my young days
on the dear old Eastern Shore.
And, in the midst of it, came the jolly Boniface, bearing, as carefully
as a mother does her first-born, three long bottles, cobwebbed and
dirty. Eighty years had they been lying in the wine-bin of the Inn,
guarding their treasure of Imperial Tokay. Now, their ward was
ended--and the supper was complete; though, in truth, it had been
complete before.
And, when we had eaten the supper and had drunk most of the Tokay, we
freshened up the glasses with what remained. Then, arising, I gave the
toast which all could drink:
"To the one we love the best!"
But, even as we drained it, there came through the open window the
clatter of horse's hoofs and, as the glasses smashed to bits among the
chimney stones, the door swung open and my senior Aide entered, hot and
dusty.
He caught my eye, halted sharply, and his hand went up in salute.
"Welcome, Colonel Bernheim," I said.
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