St. George laid his empty pipe on the table and straightened his body in the chair until his broad shoulders filled the back.  Then his brow darkened; his indignation was getting the better of him.

“I don’t know what has come over you young fellows, Harry!” he at last broke out, his eyes searching the boy’s.  “You don’t seem to know how to live.  You’ve got to pull a shoat out of a trough to keep it from overeating itself, but you shouldn’t be obliged to pull a gentleman away from his glass.  Good wine is good food and should be treated as such.  My cellar is stocked with old Madeira—­some port—­some fine sherries—­so is your father’s.  Have you ever seen him abuse them?—­have you ever seen Mr. Horn or Mr. Kennedy, or any of our gentlemen around here, abuse them?  It’s scandalous, Harry! damnable!  I love you, my son—­love you in a way you know nothing of, but you’ve got to stop this sort of thing right off.  And so have these young roysterers you associate with.  It’s getting worse every day.  I don’t wonder your dear mother feels about it as she does.  But she’s always been that way, and she’s always been right about it, too, although I didn’t use to think so.”  This last came with a lowered voice and a deep, indrawn sigh, and for the moment checked the flow of his wrath.

Harry hung his head still lower, but he did not attempt to defend himself.

“Who else were making vulgarians of themselves at Mrs. Cheston’s?” St. George continued in a calmer tone, stretching his shapely legs until the soles of his shoes touched the fender.

“Mark Gilbert, Tom Murdoch, Langdon Willits, and—­”

“Willits, eh?—­Well, I should expect it of Willits.  He wasn’t born a gentleman—­that is, his grandfather wasn’t a gentleman—­married his overseer’s daughter, if I remember right:—­but you come of the best blood in the State,—­egad!—­none better!  You have something to maintain—­some standard to keep up.  A Rutter should never be found guilty of anything that would degrade his name.  You seem to forget that—­you—­damn me, Harry!—­when I think of it all—­and of Kate—­my sweet, lovely Kate,—­and how you have made her suffer—­for she loves you—­no question of that—­I feel like wringing your neck!  What the devil do you mean, Sir?” He was up on his feet now, pacing the room, the dogs following his every movement with their brown agate eyes, their soft, silky ears straightening and falling.

So far the young fellow had not moved nor had he offered a word in defence.  He knew his Uncle George—­better let him blow it all out, then the two could come together.  At last he said in a contrite tone—­his hands upraised: 

“Don’t scold me, Uncle George.  I’ve scolded myself enough—­just say something to help me.  I can’t give Kate up—­I’d sooner die.  I’ve always made a fool of myself—­maybe I’ll quit doing it after this.  Tell me how I can straighten this out.  She won’t see me—­maybe her father won’t.  He and my father—­so Tom Warfield told me yesterday—­had a talk at the club.  What they said I don’t know, but Mr. Seymour was pretty mad—­that is, for him—­so Tom thought from the way he spoke.”