"Come, come," said James, putting his hand to his nose and winking at his cousin with a pair of vinous eyes, "no jokes, old boy; no trying it on on me. You want to trot me out, but it's no go. In vino veritas, old boy. Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum, hey? I wish my aunt would send down some of this to the governor; it's a precious good tap."
"You had better ask her," Machiavel continued, "or make the best of your time now. What says the bard? 'Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,'" and the Bacchanalian, quoting the above with a House of Commons air, tossed off nearly a thimbleful of wine with an immense flourish of his glass.

"Come, come," said James, winking at his cousin, "no jokes, old boy; no trying it on with me. You want to trot me out, but it's no go. In vino veritas, old boy. I wish my aunt would send down some of this to the governor; it's a precious good tap."
"You had better ask her," Machiavel continued, "or make the best of it now," and he tossed back nearly a thimbleful of wine with an immense flourish of his glass.
