English wine.’ Even the liveliest dinner party may experience a sudden break in the general conversation, and it is always into such a silence that the most embarrassing remarks fall. Every head turned towards David Hardie and awaited his answer. The occasion was one of a regular series of dinner parties given by The House of Hardie for faithful or potential customers. How on earth had one of these – the secretary of a London club whose members were for the most part artists and musicians – managed to pick up such a piece of gossip? ‘No, no,’ David assured him with a smile. ‘We only deal in the very finest wines, the most respected names. The country wine business can be left to ladies in embroidered aprons, working away in their own kitchens and drinking their own produce.’ ‘But the buzz is that this isn’t a country wine. The real thing, they say. What are you going to call it? Hardie hock?’ ‘I didn’t know you owned a vineyard,’ said the guest on his right. To David’s dismay, the conversation had become general.
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