“Really,” said Eugene, “I mean it. When M.R.F. said that, and followed it up by rolling the claret (for which he called, and I paid), in his mouth, and saying, ‘My dear son, why do you drink this trash?’ it was tantamount in him⁠—to a paternal benediction on our union, accompanied with a gush of tears. The coolness of M.R.F. is not to be measured by ordinary standards.”

“True enough,” said Lightwood.