on of misery
we are handing down to an innocent posterity--to whom, through our sin,
the fresh breath of life will be foul--I--yes! I would hide my name! For
whither are we tending? What home is pure absolutely? What cannot our
doctors and lawyers tell us?"

Mr. Thompson acquiesced significantly.

"And what is to come of this?" Sir Austin continued. "When the sins of
the fathers are multiplied by the sons, is not perdition the final sum of
things? And is not life, the boon of heaven, growing to be the devil's
game utterly? But for my son, I would hide my name. I would not bequeath
it to be cursed by them that walk above my grave!"

This was indeed a terrible view of existence. Mr. Thompson felt uneasy.
There was a dignity in his client, an impressiveness in his 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 dr