How long the inevitable wine-talk lasted on the particular social
occasion of which I am now writing is more than I can undertake
to say. I had heard so many other conversations of the same sort
at so many other tables that my attention wandered away wearily,
and I began to forget all about the dull little dinner-party and
the badly-assorted company of guests of whom I formed one. How
long I remained in this not over-courteous condition of mental
oblivion is more than I can tell; but when my attention was
recalled, in due course of time, to the little world around me, I
found that the good wine had begun to do its good office.
The stream of talk on either side of the host's chair was now
beginning to flow cheerfully and continuously; the
wine-conversation had worn itself out; and one of the elder
guests--Mr. Wendell--was occupied in telling the other guest--Mr.
Trowbridge--of a small fraud which had lately been committed on
him by a clerk in his employment. The first part of the story I
missed altogether. The last part, which alone caught my
attention, followed the career of the clerk to the dock of the
Old Bailey.
"So, as I was telling you," continued Mr. Wendell, "I made up my
mind to prosecute, and I did prosecute. Thoughtless people blamed
me for sending the young man to prison, and said I might just as
well have forgiven him, seeing that the trifling sum of money I
had lost by his breach of trust was barely as much as ten pounds.
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