He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. ’ Gerald suppressed a grin. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG. Wood. Very well, then.
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