"Acquiring room temperature, of course. It's been there twenty-four hours
."
"But why the study?"
"It's the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he
was here."
At the sound of his name, Pratt looked round.
"That's right, isn't it?" Mike said.
"Yes," Pratt answered, nodding gravely. "That's right."
"On top of the green filing cabinet in my study," Mike said. "That's the
place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature
. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it."
The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and h
e hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking so
ftly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The l
abel was out of sight, facing downwards. "Now!" he cried as he came towards
the table. "What about this one, Richard? You'll never name this one!"
Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelle
d down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his e
yebrows; a slight supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing ou
tward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.
"You'll never get it," Mike said. "Not in a hundred years."
"A claret?" Richard Pratt asked, condescending.
"Of course."
"I assume, then, that it's from one of the smaller vineyards?"
"Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn't."
"But it's a good year? One of the great years?"
"Yes, I guarantee that."
"Then it shouldn't be too difficult," Richard Pratt said, drawling his w
ords, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something str
ange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of someth
ing evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of une
asiness as I watched him.
"This one is really rather difficult," Mike said. "I won't force you to bet o
n this one."
"Indeed. And why not?" Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, in
tent look.
"Because it's difficult."
"That's not very complimentary to me, you know."
"My dear man," Mike said, "I'll bet you with pleasure, if that's what you
wish."
"It shouldn't be too hard to name it."
"You mean you want to bet?
"I'm perfectly willing to bet," Richard Pratt said.
"All right, then, we'll have the usual. A case of the wine itself."
"You don't think I'll be able to name it, do you?"
"As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don't," Mike said. He
was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuc
h to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his
next question seemed to betray a certain interest.
"You like to increase the bet?"
"No, Richard. A case is plenty."
"Would you like to bet fifty cases?"
"That would be silly."
Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully
holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whit
eness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.
Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows rais
ed, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. An
d again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the ma
n's face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themsel
ves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdn
ess, hiding.
"So you don't want to increase the bet?"
"As far as I'm concerned, old man, I don't give a damn," Mike said. "I'll
bet you anything you like."
The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike's wife w
as becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment
she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, s
lowly steaming.
"So you'll bet me anything I like?"
"That's what I told you. I'll bet you anything you damn well please, if you
want to make an issue out of it."
"Even ten thousand pounds?"
"Certainly I will, if that's the way you want it." Mike was more confide
nt now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention
.
"So you say I can name the bet?" Pratt asked again.
"That's what I said."
There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me
, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that
we were witness to the offer.
"Mike!" Mrs Schofield said. "Mike, why don't we stop this nonsense and ea
t our food. It's getting cold."
"But it isn't nonsense," Pratt told her evenly. "We're making a little bet."
I noticed the maid standing in the background holding a dish of vegetab
les, wondering whether to come forward with them or not.
"All right then," Pratt said. "I'll tell you what I want you to bet."
"Come on, then," Mike said, rather reckless. "I don't give a damn what it i
s--you're on."
Pratt nodded, and again the little smile moved the corners of his lips, an
d then, quite slowly, looking at Mike all the time, he said, "I want you to be
t me the hand of your daughter in marriage."
Louise Schofield gave a jump. "Hey!" she cried. "No! That's not funny! Lo
ok here, Daddy, that's not funny at all."
"No, dear," her mother said. "They're only joking."
"I'm not joking," Richard Pratt said.
"It's ridiculous," Mike said. He was off balance again now.
"You said you'd bet anything I liked."
"I meant money."
"You didn't say money."
"That's what I meant."
"Then it's a pity you didn't say it. But anyway, if you wish to go back on y
our offer, that's quite all right with me."
"It's not a question of going back on my offer, old man. It's a no-bet a
ny way, because you can't match the stake. You yourself don't happen to have
a daughter to put up against mine in case you lose. And if you had, I would
n't want to marry her."
"I'm glad of that, dear," his wife said.
"I'll put up anything you like," Pratt announced. "My house, for examp
le. How about my house?"
"Which one?" Mike asked, joking now.
"The country one."
"Why not the other one as well?"
"All right then, if you wish it. Both my houses."
At that point I saw Mike pause. He took a step forward and placed the bo
ttle in its basket gently down on the table. He moved the saltcellar to one
side, then the pepper, and then he picked up his knife, studied the blade th
oughtfully for a moment, and put it down again. His daughter, too, had seen
him pause.
"Now, Daddy!" she cried. "Don't be absurd! It's too silly for words. I refus
e to be betted on like this."
"Quite right, dear," her mother said. "Stop it at once, Mike, and sit down
and eat your food."
Mike ignored her. He looked over at his daughter and he smiled, a slow,
fatherly, protective smile. But in his eyes, suddenly, there glimmered a lit
tle triumph. "You know," he said, smiling as he spoke. "You know, Louise, we ought to think about this a bit."
"Now, stop it, Daddy! I refuse even to listen to you! Why, I've never hear
d anything so ridiculous in my life!"
"No, seriously, my dear. Just wait a moment and hear what I have to say."
"But I don't want to hear it."
"Louise! Please! It's like this. Richard, here, has offered us a serious
bet. He is the one who wants to make it, not me. And if he loses, he will hav
e to hand over a considerable amount of property. Now, wait a minute, my dear
, don't interrupt. The point is this. He cannot possibly win."
"He seems to think he can."
"Now listen to me, because I know what I'm talking about. The expert, wh
en tasting a claret--so long as it is not one of the famous great wines like
Lafite or Latour--can only get a certain way towards naming the vineyard. H
e can, of course, tell you the Bordeaux district from which the wine comes,
whether it is from St Emilion, Pomerol, Graves, or MŽdoc. But then each dist
rict has several communes, little counties, and each county has many, many s
mall vineyards. It is impossible for a man to differentiate between them all
by taste and smell alone. I don't mind telling you that this one I've got h
ere is a wine from a small vineyard that is surrounded by many other small v
ineyards, and he'll never get it. It's impossible."
"You can't be sure of that," his daughter said.
"I'm telling you I can. Though I say it myself, I understand quite a bit
about this wine business, you know. And anyway, heavens alive, girl, I'm yo
ur father and you don't think I'd let you in for--for something you didn't w
ant, do you? I'm trying to make you some money."
"Mike!" his wife said sharply. "Stop it now, Mike, please!"
Again he ignored her. "If you will take this bet," he said to his daughter
, "in ten minutes you will be the owner of two large houses."
"But I don't want two large houses, Daddy."
"Then sell them. Sell them back to him on the spot. I'll arrange all that fo
r you. And then, just think of it, my dear, you'll be rich! You'll be independen
t for the rest of your life!"
"Oh, Daddy, I don't like it. I think it's silly."
"So do I," the mother said. She jerked her head briskly up and down as
she spoke, like a hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Michael, even
suggesting such a thing! Your own daughter, too!"
Mike didn't even look at her. "Take it!" he said eagerly, staring hard at th
e girl. "Take it, quick! I'll guarantee you won't lose."
"But I don't like it, Daddy."
"Come on, girl. Take it!"
Mike was pushing her hard. He was leaning towards her, fixing her with two hard bright eyes, and it was not easy for the daughter to resist him.
"But what if I lose?"
"I keep telling you, you can't lose. I'll guarantee it."
"Oh, Daddy must I?"
"I'm making you a fortune. So come on now. What do you say, Louise? Al
l right?"
For the last time, she hesitated. Then she gave a helpless little shrug of t
he shoulders and said, "Oh, all right, then. Just so long as you swear there's n
o danger of losing."
"Good!" Mike cried. "That's fine! Then it's a bet!"
"Yes," Richard Pratt said, looking at the girl. "It's a bet."
Immediately, Mike picked up the wine, tipped the first thimbleful into h
is own glass, then skipped excitedly around the table filling up the others.
Now everyone was watching Richard Pratt, watching his face as he reached sl
owly for his glass with his right hand and lifted it to his nose. The man wa
s about fifty years old and he did not have a pleasant face. Somehow, it was
all mouth--mouth and lips--the full, wet lips of the professional gourmet,
the lower lip hanging downward in the centre, a pendulous, permanently open
taster's lip, shaped open to receive the rim of a glass or a morsel of food.
Like a keyhole, I thought, watching it; his mouth is like a large wet keyhole.
Slowly he lifted the glass to his nose. The point of the nose entered th
e glass and moved over the surface of the wine, delicately sniffing. He swir
led the wine gently around in the glass to receive the bouquet. His concentr
ation was intense. He had closed his eyes, and now the whole top half of his
body, the head and neck and chest, seemed to become a kind of huge sensitiv
e smelling-machine, receiving, filtering, analysing the message from the sni
ffing nose.
Mike, I noticed, was lounging in his chair, apparently unconcerned, but h
e was watching every move. Mrs Schofield, the wife, sat prim and upright at t
he other end of the table, looking straight ahead, her face tight with disapp
roval. The daughter, Louise, had shifted her chair away a little, and sidewis
e, facing the gourmet, and she, like her father, was watching closely.
For at least a minute, the smelling process continued; then, without ope
ning his eyes or moving his head, Pratt lowered the glass to his mouth and t
ipped in almost half the contents. He paused, his mouth full of wine, gettin
g the first taste; then, he permitted some of it to trickle down his throat
and I saw his Adam's apple move as it passed by. But most of it he retained
in his mouth. And now, without swallowing again, he drew in through the lips
a thin breath of air which mingled with the fumes of the wine in the mouth
and passed on down into his lungs. He held the breath, blew it out through h
is nose, and finally began to roll the wine around under the tongue, and che
wed it, actually chewed it with his teeth as though it were bread.