“Why, James!”

“You may well be surprised at the commission of so rude and ungentlemanly an act.  But, as I have said, I was flushed with wine.”

“How did Ernestine act?”

“She was, of course, deeply indignant at the unwarrantable liberty.  Springing from the piano-stool, her face crimsoned over, she drew herself up with a dignified air, and ordered me instantly to leave her presence.  I attempted to make an apology, but she would not hear a word.  I have since written to her, but my letter has been returned unopened.”

“Really, that is unfortunate,” the friend of Everett said, with concern.  “Ernestine is a girl whom any man might be proud to gain as a wife.  And, besides her personal qualifications, a handsome fortune will go with her hand.”

“I know all that too well, Harvey.  Fool that I have been, to mar such prospects as were mine!  But she must have known that I was not myself—­and ought to have charged the fault upon the wine, and not upon me.”

“Such a discrimination is not usually made.”

“I know that it is not.  And for not making it in my case, I certainly cannot help blaming Ernestine a little.  She must have known, that, had I not been flushed with wine, I never would have taken the liberty with her that I did.  As it is, however, I am not only pained at the consequences of my foolishness, but deeply mortified at my conduct.”

“Is there no hope of a reconciliation?”

“I do not think there is any.  If she had accepted my written apology for the act, there would have been some hope.  But the fact of her returning my letter unopened, is conclusive as to the permanency of the breach.  I can now make no further advances.”

“Truly, it is mortifying!” the friend remarked.  Then, after a pause, he added, with emphasis—­

“What fools this wine does make of us, sometimes!”

“Doesn’t it?  Another such a circumstance as this, would almost drive me to join a temperance society.”

“O, no, hardly that, James.”

“Well, perhaps not.  But, at least, to eschew wine for ever.”

“Wine is good enough in its place; but, like fire, is rather a bad master.  Like you, I have injured my prospects in life by an over-indulgence in the pleasures of the cup.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“When did that happen?”

“Since I last saw you.”

“Indeed!  I am sorry to hear you say so.  But how was it?—­tell me.”

“You know, that as a young physician, I shall have to struggle on in this city for years before I can rise to any degree of distinction, unless aided by some fortunate circumstance, that shall be as a stepping-stone upon which to elevate me, and enable me to gain the public eye.  I am conscious that I have mastered thoroughly the principles of my profession—­and that, in regard to surgery, particularly, I possess a skill not surpassed by many who have handled the