Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife's name, but the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too, raised his unsteady voice. Again and again the words were madly shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop. What a picture of degradation! Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed, burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands. Eugene attempted to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which seemed to suffocate him. Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party, laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way, grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed: "Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and let us have a ride to cool us. Come. Munroe and Cowdon must look after the others. By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could not find fault with your cellar. Come." Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door, where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel. It was a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver light over the silent earth. Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy, and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with difficulty hold until the riders were seated. "Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30. What say you?" "Done; 2.40 is the lowest." "Phew! Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made of. Now, then, out with your watch."