About the time we're bringin' ourselves to
drink it, we shall be havin' the next great war. With luck that 'ock
may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine
it'll be. I only hope I may be here to drink it. Ah! [He shakes his
head]--but look at claret! Times are hard on claret. We're givin'
it an awful doin'. Now, there's a Ponty Canny [He points to a bin]-
if we weren't so 'opelessly allied with France, that wine would have
a reasonable future. As it is--none! We drink it up and up; not
more than sixty dozen left. And where's its equal to come from for a
dinner wine--ah! I ask you? On the other hand, port is steady; made
in a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour;
guaranteed by the British Nary; we may 'ope for the best with port.
Do you drink it?
PRESS. When I get the chance.
POULDER. Ah! [Clears his throat] I've often wanted to ask: What do
they pay you--if it's not indelicate?
[THE PRESS shrugs his shoulders.]
Can you do it at the money?
[THE PRESS shakes his head.] Still--it's an easy life! I've
regretted sometimes that I didn't have a shot at it myself;
influencin' other people without disclosin' your identity--something
very attractive about that. [Lowering his voice] Between man and
man, now-what do you think of the situation of the country--these
processions of the unemployed--the Red Flag an' the Marsillaisy in
the streets--all this talk about an upheaval?
PRESS.
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