is speech, that
silenced remonstrating reason and the cry of long years of comfortable
respectability. Mr. Thompson went to church regularly; paid his rates
and dues without overmuch, or at least more than common, grumbling. On
the surface he was a good citizen, fond of his children, faithful to
his wife, devoutly marching to a fair seat in heaven on a path paved by
something better than a thousand a year. But here was a man sighting him
from below the surface, and though it was an unfair, unaccustomed, not
to say un-English, method of regarding one's fellow-man, Mr. Thompson
was troubled by it. What though his client exaggerated? Facts were at
the bottom of what he said. And he was acute--he had unmasked Ripton!
Since Ripton's exposure he winced at a personal application in the text
his client preached from. Possibly this was the secret source of part of
his anger against that peccant youth.

Mr. Thompson shook his head, and, with dolefully puckered visage and a
pitiable contraction of his shoulders, rose slowly up from his chair.
Apparently he was about to speak, but he straightway turned and went
meditatively to a side-recess in the room, whereof he opened a door,
drew forth a tray and a decanter labelled Port, filled a glass for his
client, deferentially invited him to partake of it; filled another glass
for himself, and drank.

That was his reply.

Sir Austin never took wine before dinner. Thompson had looked as if he
meant to speak: he waited for Thompson's words.

Mr. Thompson saw that, as his client did not join him in his glass, the
eloquence of that Porty reply was lost on his client.

Having slowly ingurgitated and meditated upon this precious draught,
and turned its flavour over and over with an aspect of potent Judicial
wisdom (one might have thought that he was weighing mankind m the
balance), the old lawyer heaved, and said, sharpening his lips over
the admirable vintage, "The world is in a very sad state, I fear, Sir
Austin!"

His client gazed at him queerly.

"But that," Mr. Thompson added immediately, ill-concealing by his gaze
the glowing intestinal congratulations going on within him, "that is,
I think you would say, Sir Austin--if I could but prevail upon you--a
tolerably good character wine!"

"There's virtue somewhere, I see, Thompson!" Sir Austin murmured,
without disturbing his legal adviser's dimples.

The old lawyer sat down to finish his glass, saying, that such a wine
was not to