“Upon my life,” says Mortimer languidly, “I find it immensely embarrassing to have the eyes of Europe upon me to this extent, and my only consolation is that you will all of you execrate Lady Tippins in your secret hearts when you find, as you inevitably will, the Man from Somewhere a bore. Sorry to destroy romance by fixing him with a local habitation, but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, but will suggest itself to everybody else here, where they make the wine.”
Eugene suggests “Day and Martin’s.”
“No, not that place,” returns the unmoved Mortimer, “that’s where they make the Port. My man comes from the country where they make the Cape Wine. But look here, old fellow; its not at all statistical and it’s rather odd.”
It is always noticeable at the table of the Veneerings, that no man troubles himself much about the Veneerings themselves, and that anyone who