"He's guilty, safe enough. The wretch!"
Well, of course, she knew best. Still, what a funny world it is.
At dinner I ordered a bottle of wine. The landlord brought it up himself, as an excuse for a gossip. He was a shrivelled-up little man, about sixty, not at all like the typical Boniface.
"I thought that I should have been on the jury. But I was on the jury yesterday instead. But there are two cousins of mine who are--got heads screwed on their shoulders both of 'em."
"Indeed? Will you have a glass of wine?"
"Thank you, ma'am, you're very kind. I don't mind if I do." He did not mind.
"I can recommend this port wine. I've had it in my cellars over twenty years. Your very good health, ma'am. Yes." He shook his head. "Neither of them holds with this chap's little games." I had not the faintest notion to what little games he alluded. "I saw you in court, ma'am. Might I ask if you're interested in any of the parties?"
"Not at all. I am an American. While I was staying in England I thought that I would not lose an opportunity of seeing one of your great trials."
"Ay, this is a very great trial, this is. It won't soon be forgotten. Do you think he's guilty?"
"Do you?"