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 be had everywhere.

They were then outwardly silent for a apace.  Inwardly one of them was full of riot and jubilant uproar:  as if the solemn fields of law were suddenly to be invaded and possessed by troops of Bacchanals:  and to preserve a decently wretched physiognomy over it, and keep on terms with his companion, he had to grimace like a melancholy clown in a pantomime.

Mr. Thompson brushed back his hair.  The baronet was still expectant.  Mr. Thompson sighed deeply, and emptied his glass.  He combated the change that had come over him.  He tried not to see Ruby.  He tried to feel miserable, and it was not in him.  He spoke, drawing what appropriate inspirations he could from his client’s countenance, to show that they had views in common:  “Degenerating sadly, I fear!”

The baronet nodded.

“According to what my wine-merchants say,” continued Mr. Thompson, “there can be no doubt about it.”

Sir Austin stared.

“It’s the grape, or the ground, or something,” Mr. Thompson went on.  “All I can say is, our youngsters will have a bad look-out!  In my opinion Government should be compelled to send out a Commission to inquire into the cause.  To Englishmen it would be a public calamity.  It surprises me—­I hear men sit and talk despondently of this extraordinary disease of the vine, and not one of them seems to think it incumbent on him to act, and do his best to stop it.”  He fronted his client like a man who accuses an enormous public delinquency.  “Nobody makes a stir!  The apathy of Englishmen will become proverbial.  Pray, try it, Sir Austin!  Pray, allow me.  Such a wine cannot disagree at any hour.  Do!  I am allowanced two glasses three hours before dinner.  Stomachic.  I find it agree with me surprisingly:  quite a new man.  I suppose it will last our time.  It must!  What should we do?  There’s no Law possible without it.  Not a lawyer of us could live.  Ours is an occupation which dries the blood.”