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Mr. Keith has been giving me his recipe for
happiness. What is yours?"
"Happiness is a question of age. The bachelor of forty--he is the happy
man."
"That does not help me much," said Denis. "But I'll get your wine, all
the same."
He went.
"A nice young fellow," observed the priest. "This little accident of
yours," he continued, "does not reflect itself on your face. You always
look like a baby, Keith. What is your secret? I believe you have
concluded a pact with the devil for your soul."
"To tell you the truth, Don Francesco, he never made me an offer for
it."
"Sensible devil! He knows he will get it sooner or later for nothing."
They conversed awhile till Denis returned, bearing sundry bottles and
glasses on a tray. The priest smiled at the sight. Light-hearted
allusions to Ganymede rose to his lips, but were suppressed. He
swallowed down the rising inclination to be classical at the expense of
good taste, and engulfed, on the top of it, as a kind of paperweight, a
vast tumblerful of red Nepenthe wine.


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