“Oh, I shall punish him, Sir Austin!  Do not fear me, air.  I have no tenderness for vice.”

“That is not what is wanted, Thompson.  You mistake me.  He should be dealt with gently.  Heavens! do you hope to make him hate vice by making him a martyr for its sake?  You must descend from the pedestal of age to become his Mentor:  cause him to see how certainly and pitilessly vice itself punishes:  accompany him into its haunts”—­

“Over town?” broke forth Mr. Thompson.

“Over town,” said the baronet.

“And depend upon it,” he added, “that, until fathers act thoroughly up to their duty, we shall see the sights we see in great cities, and hear the tales we hear in little villages, with death and calamity in our homes, and a legacy of sorrow and shame to the generations to come.  I do aver,” he exclaimed, becoming excited, “that, if it were not for the duty to my son, and the hope I cherish in him, I, seeing the accumulation 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.