Louder and noisier this little group became, Whitford, under a fresh supply of wine, leading in the boisterous mirth.  One after another, attracted by the gayety and laughter, joined the group, until it numbered fifteen or twenty half-intoxicated young men and women, who lost themselves in a kind of wild saturnalia.

It was past twelve o’clock when Mrs. Whitford entered the dining-room, where the noise and laughter were almost deafening.  Her face was pale, her lips closely compressed and her forehead contracted with pain.  She stood looking anxiously through the room until she saw her son leaning against the wall, with a young lady standing in front of him holding a glass in her hand which she was trying to induce him to take.  One glance at the face of Ellis told her too plainly his sad condition.

To go to him and endeavor to get him away Mrs. Whitford feared might arouse his latent pride and make him stubborn to her wishes.

“You see that young man standing against the wall?” she said to one of the waiters.

“Mr. Whitford do you mean?” asked the waiter.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Go to him quietly, and say that his mother is going home and wants him.  Speak low, if you please.”

Mrs. Whitford stood with a throbbing heart as the waiter passed down the room.  The tempter was before her son offering the glass of wine, which he yet refused.  She saw him start and look disconcerted as the waiter spoke to him, then wave the glass of wine aside.  But he did not stir from him place.

The waiter came back to Mrs. Whitford: 

“He says don’t wait for him, ma’am.”

The poor mother felt an icy coldness run along her nerves.  For some moments she stood irresolute, and then went back to the parlor.  She remained there for a short time, masking her countenance as best she could, and then returned to the dining-room, where noise and merriment still prevailed.  She did not at first see her son, though her eyes went quickly from face to face and from form to form.  She was about retiring, under the impression that he was not there, when the waiter to whom she had spoken before said to her: 

“Are you looking for Mr. Whitford?”

There was something in his voice that made her heart stand still.

“Yes,” she replied.

“You will find him at the lower end of the room, just in the corner,” said the man.

Mrs. Whitford made her way to the lower end of the room.  Ellis was sitting in a chair, stupid and maudlin, and two or three thoughtless girls were around his chair laughing at his drunken efforts to be witty.  The shocked mother did not speak to him, but shrunk away and went gliding from the room.  At the door she said to the waiter who had followed her out, drawn by a look she gave him: 

“I will be ready to go in five minutes, and I want Mr. Whitford to go with me.  Get him down to the door as quietly as you can.”