Then, after strolling aimlessly elsewhere, on sea or land, visiting
friends--no matter whom or where--he would return to Nepenthe to indulge
his genius to the full in the vintage bacchanals. He owned a small
plantation that lay high up, among the easterly cliffs of the island.
It produced that mountain wine which was held to be the best on
Nepenthe. The vines grew upon a natural platform, surrounded by rugged
lava crags that overhung the sea.
Hither he was wont to repair with certain of his domestic staff and
three or four friends from out of his "inner circle," to superintend
the pressing of the grapes. There was a rude structure of masonry on
the spot--a vaulted chamber containing winepress and vats and hoes and
other implements of the husbandman's time-honoured craft; a few chairs
and a table completed the furniture. Nobody knew exactly what happened
up here. People talked of wild and shameless carousals; the rocks were
said to resound with ribald laughter while Mr. Keith, oozing paganism
at every pore, danced faun-like measures to the sound of rustic flutes.
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