“It happens too often with Ellis,” replied his wife, “and I’m beginning to feel greatly troubled about it.”

“Has it happened before?”

“Yes; at Mrs. Gleason’s, only last week.  He was loud and boisterous in the supper-room—­so much so that I heard a lady speak of his conduct as disgraceful.”

“That will never do,” exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, betraying much excitement.  “He will have to change all this or give up Blanche.  I don’t care what his family is if he isn’t all right himself.”

“It is easier to get into trouble than out of it,” was replied.  “Things have gone too far between them.”

“I don’t believe it.  Blanche will never throw herself away on a man of bad habits.”

“No; I do not think she will.  But there may be, in her view, a very great distance between an occasional glass of wine too much at an evening party and confirmed bad habits.  We must not hope to make her see with our eyes, nor to take our judgment of a case in which her heart is concerned.  Love is full of excuses and full of faith.  If Ellis Whitford should, unhappily, be overcome by this accursed appetite for drink which is destroying so many of our most promising young men, there is trouble ahead for her and for us.”

“Something must be done about it.  We cannot let this thing go on,” said Mr. Birtwell, in a kind of helpless passion.  “A drunkard is a beast.  Our Blanche tied to a beast!  Ugh!  Ellis must be talked to.  I shall see him myself.  If he gets offended, I cannot help it.  There’s too much at stake—­too much, too much!”

“Talking never does much in these cases,” returned Mrs. Birtwell, gloomily.  “Ellis would be hurt and offended.”

“So far so good.  He’d be on guard at the next party.”

“Perhaps so.  But what hope is there for a young man in any danger of acquiring a love of liquor as things now are in our best society?  He cannot always be on guard.  Wine is poured for him everywhere.  He may go unharmed in his daily walks through the city though thousands of drinking-saloons crowd its busy streets.  They may hold out their enticements for him in vain.  But he is too weak to refuse the tempting glass when a fair hostess offers it, or when, in the midst of a gay company wine is in every hand and at every lip.  One glass taken, and caution and restraint are too often forgotten.  He drinks with this one and that one, until his clear head is gone and appetite, like a watchful spider, throws another cord of its fatal web around him.”

“I don’t see what we are to do about it,” said Mr. Birtwell.  “If men can’t control themselves—­” He did not finish the sentence.

“We can at least refrain from putting temptation in their way,” answered his wife.

“How?”

“We can refuse to turn our houses into drinking-saloons,” replied Mrs. Birtwell, voice and manner becoming excited and intense.

“Margaret, Margaret, you are losing yourself,” said the astonished husband.