When, after a long struggle with right convictions, I resumed my work of filling up the cards of invitation, I had such a blinding headache that I could scarcely see the letters my pen was forming; and when the task was done, I went to bed, unable to bear up against the double burden of intense bodily and mental anguish.

The cards went out, and the question of the party was settled beyond recall.  But that did not soothe the disquietude of my spirit.  I felt the perpetual burden of a great and troubling responsibility.  Do what I would, there was for me no ease of mind.  Waking or sleeping, the thought of Albert Martindale and his mother haunted me continually.

At last the evening came, and our guests began to arrive, in party dresses and party faces, richly attired, smiling and gracious.  Among the earliest were Mr. and Mrs. Martindale, their son and daughter.

The light in my friend’s eyes, as we clasped hands and looked into each other’s faces, did not conceal the shadows of anxious fear that rested on them.  As I held Albert’s hand, and gazed at him for a moment, a pang shot through my heart.  Would he go out as pure and manly as he had come in?  Alas, no! for I had made provision for his fall.

The company was large and fashionable.  I shall not attempt a description of the dresses, nor venture an estimate touching the value of diamonds.  I have no heart for this.  No doubt the guests enjoyed themselves to the degree usual on such occasions.  I cannot say as much for at, least one of the hosts.  In the supper-room stood a table, the sight of which had smitten my eyes with pain.  Its image was perpetually before me.  All the evening, while my outward eyes looked into happy faces, my inward gaze rested gloomily on decanters of brandy and bottles of wine crowding the supper-table, to which I was soon to invite the young men—­mere boys, some of them—­and maidens, whose glad voices filled the air of my drawing-rooms.

I tried to console myself by the argument that I was only doing as the rest did—­following a social custom; and that society was responsible—­not the individual.  But this did not lift the weight of concern and self-condemnation that so heavily oppressed me.

At last word came that all was ready in the supper-room.  The hour was eleven.  Our guests passed in to where smoking viands, rich confectionery and exhilarating draughts awaited them.  We had prepared a liberal entertainment, a costly feast of all available delicacies.  Almost the first sound that greeted my ears after entering the supper-room was the “pop” of a champagne cork.  I looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a bottle in the hands of Albert Martindale.  A little back from the young man stood his mother.  Our eyes met.  Oh, the pain and reproach in the glance of my friend!  I could not bear it, but turned my face away.

I neither ate nor drank anything.  The most tempting dish had no allurement for my palate, and I shivered at the thought of tasting wine.  I was strangely and unnaturally disturbed; yet forced to commend myself and be affable and smiling to our guests.