I wrote to the shippers. A Monsieur had bought the wine and ordered it
to be consigned to me. Readers of this story will say that I ought to
have thought of Johnson. I didn't. I thanked effusively half a dozen
persons in turn, who had not sent the claret; then, hopelessly
befogged, I had the wine bottled.
However, Johnson sent the wine, for he told me so. I had been passing
a few days at Blois, and was staring at the Fragonard which hangs in
the gallery of the chateau, when a languid voice said, "This is the
best thing here."
"Hullo, Johnson!" I exclaimed.
"Hullo!" said he.
He had recognised me first, and addressed the remark about the picture
to me. Nobody else was near us. We shook hands solemnly, eyeing each
other, noting the changes. Johnson appeared to be prosperous, but
slightly Gallicised.
"How is--Ajax?" he murmured.
"Ajax has grown fat. Can't you dine with me?"
"It's my turn. We must order a bottle of Leoville at once."
"You sent that wine," I exclaimed. There was no note of interrogation
in my voice. I knew.
"Yes," he said indifferently; "it will be worth drinking in about ten
years' time.
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