In the early days of summer Mr. and Mrs. Graham left the city for one of the fashionable watering-places on the Gulf, accompanied by Antoinette.  Eugene remained, on some pretext of business, but promised to follow in a short time.  The week subsequent to their departure saw a party of gentlemen assembled to dine at his house.  The long afternoon wore away; still they sat round the table.  The cloth had been removed, and only wine and cigars remained; bottle after bottle was emptied, and finally decanters were in requisition.  The servants shrugged their shoulders, and looked on with amused expectancy.  The conversation grew loud and boisterous, now and then flavored with oaths; twilight came on—­the shutters were closed—­the magnificent chandelier lighted.  Eugene seized a crystal ice bowl, and was about to extract a lump of ice when it fell from his fingers and shivered to atoms.  A roar of laughter succeeded the exploit, and, uncorking a fresh bottle of champagne, he demanded a song.  Already a few of the guests were leaning on the table stupefied, but several began the strain.  It was a genuine Bacchanalian ode, and the deafening shout rose to the frescoed ceiling as the revelers leaned forward and touched their glasses.  Touched, did I say; it were better written clashed.  There was a ringing chorus as crystal met crystal; glittering fragments flew in every direction; down ran the foaming wine, thick with splintered glass, on the rosewood table.  But the strain was kept up; fresh glasses were supplied; fresh bottles drained; the waiters looked on, wondered where all this would end, and pointed to the ruin of the costly service.  The brilliant gaslight shone on a scene of recklessness pitiable indeed.  All were young men, and, except Eugene, all unmarried; but they seemed familiar with such occasions.  One or two, thoroughly intoxicated, lay with their heads on the table, unconscious of what passed; others struggled to sit upright, yet the shout was still raised from time to time.

“Fill up, and let us have that glorious song from Lucrezia Borgia.  Hey, Proctor!” cried Eugene.

“That is poor fun without Vincent.  He sings it equal to Vestvali.  Fill up there, Munroe, and shake up Cowdon.  Come, begin, and—­”

He raised his glass with a disgusting oath, and was about to commence, when Munroe said stammeringly: 

“Where is Fred, anyhow?  He is a devilish fine fellow for a frolic.  I—­”

“Why, gone to the coast with Graham’s pretty wife.  He is all devotion.  They waltz and ride, and, in fine, he is her admirer par excellence.  Stop your stupid stammering, and begin.”