distinguishing tastes, assented to this test willingly enough. Lalla bound the scarf around his eyes, and saw to it that it was efficacious in limiting his vision.
Brandy! Jack cried, after his first sip.
But, Paul expostulated, that's from the second carafe.
Jack tore off the bandage. You've mixed them up, he swore. That's from the first.
Don't be an ass, Jack, Lalla implored him. They're both Scotch.
One of 'em is brandy. . . . Poor Mr. Pollanger was ready to weep. . . . I'm certain one of 'em is brandy.
I've got it! cried George. We'll ask the barkeeps. They're sure to know.
Great! Paul encouraged the idea.
Though it won't make the least difference what they say, because both carafes contain Scotch, Lalla inserted.
One of 'em is brandy. I think it's the second, Mr. Pollanger politely demurred. Even in the throes of anguish over being contradicted, he recalled with some pleasure that never before had he carried on so extended a conversation with any of his wife's guests.
Who is that man? Madame Madrilena demanded feverishly, and then muttered sullenly, Cognac!
The servants readily agreed to decide the matter, but when George handed them the carafes it was discovered that both were empty.
