spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected
darky left the room for the regions below.

"So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!--when will you learn to think
twice before you speak? Whose fault was it?" sighed St. George, filling
the bowl of his pipe with his slender fingers, slowly tucking in each
shred and grain.

"Mine."

"What did you say?" (Puff-puff.)

"Nothing--I couldn't. She came in and saw it all." The boy had his
elbows on the table now, his cheeks sunk in his hands.

St. George looked up: "Drunk, were you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At Mrs. Cheston's ball last week."

"Have you seen her since?"

"No--she won't let me come near her. Mr. Seymour passed me yesterday and
hardly spoke to me."

St. George canted his chair and zigzagged it toward the blazing hearth;
then he said thoughtfully, without looking at the young man: