OnesuchindulgenceledmeinthecourseofmysecondyearintoanadventurewhichImustrelate：indeed，itistheverypointIhavebeenaimingfor，sincethatwaswhatbroughtmeinacquaintancewithJimPinkerton。IsatdownalonetodinneroneOctoberdaywhentherustyleaveswerefallingandscuttlingontheboulevard，andthemindsofimpressionablemeninclinedinaboutanequaldegreetowardssadnessandconviviality。Therestaurantwasnogreatplace，butboastedaconsiderablecellarandalongprintedlistofvintages。ThisI
wasperusingwiththedoublezestofamanwhoisfondofwineandaloverofbeautifulnames，whenmyeyefellneartheendofthecardonthatnotveryfamousorfamiliarbrand，Roussillon。IremembereditwasawineIhadnevertasted，orderedabottle，founditexcellent，andwhenIhaddiscussedthecontents，calledaccordingtomyhabitforafinalpint。ItappearstheydidnotkeepRoussilloninhalf-bottles。“Allright。”saidI。“Anotherbottle。”Thetablesatthiseating-houseareclosetogether；andthenextthingIcanremember，Iwasinsomewhatloudconversationwithmynearestneighbours。
FromtheseImusthavegraduallyextendedmyattentions；forI
haveaclearrecollectionofgazingaboutaroominwhicheverychairwashalfturnedroundandeveryfaceturnedsmilinglytomine。IcanevenrememberwhatIwassayingatthemoment；
butaftertwentyyears，theembersofshamearestillalive；andI