All, like most things else that are planned, began well. But with Latham
life was a game of show. He had to put forth all his knowledge of
subjects in which he deemed Borrow an adept. He began with horse-racing.
Borrow quietly assented. He showed off all he knew of the ring. Borrow
freely responded. He had to show what he knew of publishers, instancing
the Longmans. Borrow said, “I suppose you dine with your publishers
sometimes?” It was Latham’s opportunity; he could not resist it, and
replied, “Never; I hope I should never do anything so low. You do
not dine with John Murray, I presume?” “Indeed, I do,” said Borrow
emotionally. “He is a most kind friend. When I have had sickness in my
house, he has been unfailing in his goodness towards me. There is no man
I value more.”
Latham’s conversation was fast falling under the influence of wine; with
this his better taste departed from him. “I have heard,” he said, “that
you are a brave man over a bottle of good wine. Now, how many bottles can
you get through at a sitting?”
Borrow saw what the other was; he was resolved not to take offence at
what was only impertinent and self-asserting, so he said, “When I was in
Madrid, I knew a priest who would sit down alone to his two bottles.”
“Yes,” replied Latham, with his knowing look, and his head on one side
like a bird, “but what I want to know is, how many bottles you can manage
at one sitting?”
“I once knew another priest,” said Borrow. “It was at Oporto; I have seen
him get through two bottles by himself.”
By this time Latham was a little unsteady; he slipped from his chair as
if it had been an inclined plane, and lay on the carpet, on which he
made his mark as betokening more than nausea. He was unable to rise, but
he held his head up, with a cunning smile, saying, “This must be a very
disreputable house.”
Borrow saw Latham after this at times on his way to me, and always
stopped to say a kind word to him, seeing his forlorn condition.