I went to the supper-room. All the ladies had retired, and the door
was shut. What a scene for a gentleman's house presented itself!
Cigars had been lighted, and the air was thick with smoke. As I
pushed open the door, my ear was fairly stunned by the confusion of
sounds. There was a hush of voices, and I saw bottles from many
hands set quickly upon the table, and glasses removed from lips
already too deeply stained with wine. With three or four exceptions,
all of this company were young men and boys. Near the door was the
person I sought.

"Albert!" I called; and the young man came forward. His face was
darkly flushed, and his eyes red and glittering.

"Albert, your mother is going," I said.

"Give her my compliments," he answered, with an air of mock
courtesy, "and tell her that she has my gracious permission."

"Come!" I urged; "she is waiting for you."

He shook his head resolutely. "I'm not going for an hour, Mrs.
Carleton. Tell mother not to trouble herself. I'll be home in good
time."

I urged him, but in vain.

"Tell him that he _must_ come!" Mrs. Martindale turned on her
husband an appealing look of distress, when I gave her Albert's
reply.