9The amber liquid came almost to the rim before Lambert held up his hand, picked up the heavy tumbler and took a large mouthful. He spluttered, holding onto the arm of his wheelchair, eyes squeezed shut and Miles laughed, raised his own glass, and downed it in one.
Sinclair, standing a little way off, had an amused look on his face. “You should sip a good Islay malt, Mr Lambert. Savour its aroma, allow it to linger on the palette, feel its velvet path down to your guts.”
“Very poetic,” murmured Miles as he poured out a second glassful. “I'll stay here tonight, bonny lad. That way I can have a few more of these. What's for supper, Sinclair?”
“Mrs Malone is serving grilled sole this evening, sir. With boiled new potatoes and a green salad.”
“I hate salad.”
“Not Mrs Malone's, sir. It's l
