For some moments he continued
to stand in the same position, looking down into the crimson depth
of liquid that lay, scintillating lazily, in the silver bowl.
At last he raised it to his lips and sipped it--once, twice, three
times. Then he waited. "Wine to make glad the heart of man." The words
came to his mind. Wine was a terrible power, a fascinating evil. He
thanked God that he had never fallen a prey to its fascinations. This
wine was very sweet. He liked sweet things. Once he had tasted
champagne when dining at the house of Lady Bray. He had thought that
disagreeable, though at the moment he had murmured that it was
excellent wine; but he had been unable to understand how any man could
take of that more than was good for him. This wine, of course, that
they used in the church was infinitely more palatable. But how could
he possibly drink all this? It was out of the question. He prayed
devoutly that Mr. Windle would soon find him relief and send some
one.
He took another sip and waited, noticing that already there were
slight signs of diminution in the contents of the chalice. Then he
thought of the bishop. It was possible that his lordship might notice
the scent of it in his breath if he took it all.
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