“Those who say so know nothing about it,” I replied warmly, for I was nettled at his words.
“Well, well, no offence I hope; but, changing the subject, you will come to my supper, Friday evening, will you not? I’ll take no refusal. There will be a select company, and we cannot do without you.”
He was so urgent in his invitation that I finally consented to attend.
As I started to the supper room Friday night, Ned said, in his kind way:
“Do not drink much, to-night, John. It is hard to count one’s glasses in the midst of so much hilarity.”
“Never fear for me,” I said, gaily, as I ran down the stairs. Frank had secured rooms down town, and on reaching them I found the company all assembled. There were Markham and Bolton, two Seniors, to contribute dignity; Trickley, a Soph., who was brimful of song; Ellerton, who was considered a wit; two or three others whose names I have forgotten, and last a little Fresh named Peepsy, who was so exceedingly verdant that Frank had brought him down as a butt for us. I shook hands round and bowed stiffly to Ellerton, whom I had not spoken to since the duel.
The time before supper was laid was, as is always the case, dull, the Seniors discussing Mill and Say, Vattel and Montesquieu, as if the fate of the nation depended on their opinion, while the rest of us addressed each other in short sentences after long intervals of silence. At length a servant announced that supper was on the table. We passed through a folding door, and gathered around a table that was really groaning beneath its massive load of delicacies. Frank had ordered the supper from Richmond, and Pazzini had excelled himself. After the usual chair scrapings, waiter trippings, plate turnings and comic graces, some of which were shockingly irreverent, we got to work. With some flow of conversation and a laugh at Peepsy, who called Swiss Meringue a syllabub sandwich, we came to the removal of the cloth.
I had determined, on my way thither, not to touch wine unless courtesy compelled it, but now, as I caught the contagion of hilarity, and found that what I said was applauded and listened to—dangerous flattery—a reckless spirit of conviviality seized me, and I threw restraint to the winds, resolving to have a “good time” for once. Conscience had withdrawn into a corner of my heart, and revelry held its carnival.
The green seals were broken and the amber fluid bubbled in our glasses.
I drank one as we toasted Frank, another after his reply, and the third at a compliment to myself.