"Of what kind, pray?" inquired Mr. Bergan, in considerable surprise.
"Well, it seems to me that we ought,—once, at least,—to invite him formally to dinner."
"Pray, what has he been doing, to place us under such an obligation?" asked Mr. Bergan, somewhat dryly.
Mrs. Bergan colored slightly. "I am afraid that we made a mistake at the outset," said she. "Of course, the attention was due to him then as much as now."
"I thought we agreed that the less Carice saw of him, the better," replied Mr. Bergan.
"Yes, I know. But that was because we believed him to be of intemperate habits."
Men of Godfrey Bergan's thoughtful and deliberate character, when they adopt a mistaken opinion, are wont to wedge it in so firmly among things undeniably true and just, that to dislodge it is like tearing up an oak which has rooted itself in a rock cleft. "I wish I were certain that he is not," he answered, with a slow, grave shake of the head.
Mrs. Bergan gave him a surprised look. "I don't see why you should doubt him," said she. "Everybody agrees that a more correct young man does not exist. He is always to be found in his office during office hours, attends Church regularly on Sundays, as well as at most of the occasional services, goes into but little society, and that of the very best,—what more would you have?"
"Nothing," replied her husband, "except the certainty that it will last. A drunkard's reform is so rarely a permanent thing, that one is justified in distrusting it. Though he may keep as sober as a Carthusian monk for a few months, or even for a year or two, his unhappy appetite is only a caged lion: in the first unguarded moment, it is certain to break out, and to sweep everything before it—resolution, hope, energy, and promise. Unfortunately for my nephew, perhaps, but very fortunately for ourselves, I fancy, I happen to retain a distinct recollection of my first meeting with him."
"But," urged Mrs. Bergan, "I thought Carice told you what your brother Harry said about that matter."