What a madly gay little wine, my dear!" M. Cliquot said, repressing, but not soon enough, a grimace of pain. "One would say a Tavel of a good year," I cried, "if one were a complete bloody fool." I did not say the second clause aloud.My old friend looked at me with a new respect. He was discovering in me a capacity for hypocrisy that he had never credited me with before.