Urquhart leans against a pillar near the bar serving the refreshments. He's sought out by maids interested in his person, and men who have heard rumours about that whisky from his home valley. He dispenses tiny dollops from his flask into eagerly proffered glasses, and can't promise to anybody that he'll be able to pinch his master's last remaining bottle without that being noticed.

At this rate, they will really run out before every interested person walks away with a bottle of which he'll think it's the only one.