Again Harry nodded--as if he had been listening to an indictment, every
word of which he knew was true.

St. George roused himself and faced his guest: "And yet you took this
time, Harry, to--"

The boy threw up both hands in protest:

"Don't!--DON'T! Uncle George! It's the ball that makes it all the worse.
That's why I've got no time to lose; that's why I've haunted this place
waiting for you to get back. Mother will be heart-broken if she finds
out and I don't know what father would do."

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