Mrs. Vimpany reviewed her miserable married life with
the finest mockery of her own misfortune. "Virtue," she said to
herself, "is its own reward."
Glancing with careless curiosity at the disorder of the dinner-table,
she noticed some wine still left in the bottom of her husband's glass.
Had artificial means been used to reduce him to his present condition?
She tasted the claret. No; there was nothing in the flavour of it which
betrayed that he had been drugged. If the waiter was to be believed, he
had only drunk claret--and there he was, in a state of helpless
stupefaction, nevertheless.
She looked again at the dinner-table, and discovered one, among the
many empty bottles, with some wine still left in it. After a moment of
reflection, she took a clean tumbler from the sideboard.
Here was the wine which had been an object of derision to Mr. Vimpany
and his friends. They were gross feeders and drinkers; and it might not
be amiss to put their opinions to the test. She was not searching for
the taste of a drug now; her present experiment proposed to try the
wine on its own merits.
At the time of her triumphs on the country stage--before the date of
her unlucky marriage--rich admirers had entertained the handsome
actress at suppers, which offered every luxury that the most perfect
table could supply.
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