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."