"Ah, that's just what so many say! That a gentleman is a gentleman whether he is drunk or sober! It's not so with other things. Is a gentleman a gentleman whether he lies, or cheats at cards, or not? Isn't there to be any standard, really? Don't you see that there never will be any penalty--as far as drinking is concerned--until women _make_ it? Listen, Nancy. The year I came out, I went to a dance--my first big one. There was a boy there who followed me about all over the floor. He wanted me to dance with him, and he was--he could hardly walk. At first I was frightened, but at last I grew angry. I asked a lady why he was not asked to leave the floor. She seemed quite astonished and indignant. 'But,' she said, 'don't you know who he _is_? That's the son of General Moultrie!' It was Cale Moultrie. You know what became of him, don't you?" "Yes." Nancy's voice was muffled. "But Chilly--" "Oh, my dear, there was a time when Cale drank no more than the others, and everybody liked him--as they do Chilly. It's coming to be the same with him, I'm afraid. There's no penalty for him yet because he's Chisholm Allen--because he's father's son!" She stopped, caught by the sound of a sob. In another moment her arms were around the frail little body and the flower-like face was pressed hard against her breast. "I don't care if he _is_ d-d-dissipated," said Nancy passionately. "I'd rather have him come to me d-d-drunk than any other man sober! He's just Ch-Ch-Chilly, all the same!" CHAPTER V THE UNLAID GHOST On the ground floor of the old house all was silent save in the dining-room, where a single electric bulb threw into garish relief the dismantled table with a bowl of fern glowing like a fountain of emeralds against the dark wood. It lighted the Chippendale sideboard, before which Chisholm Allen confronted old Nelson, the butler. A cut-glass decanter of sherry was in one hand; the other was alternately fumbling uncertainly with the stopper and pushing back the persuasive fingers of the aged negro. His straw hat was tipped awry, his face was flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright. He was laughing immoderately. "You old black stick-in-the-mud!" he said. "What's the matter with you? Think _you_ own that decanter, eh? Well, you don't, not by a long shot. _I_ do--Chris'mas present from the Duchess. Hope to die if it wasn't. Leggo, you virtuous old chicken-thief, and give me a tumbler!" "Now, Marse Chilly!" The low voice was deprecating and appealing, and there was love in it too--the deep, changeless affection of the old-time negro for his white master. "Yo' _knows_ yo' don' want no mo' dat ar. Yo' done had er plenty at dat ole club down town. Ef yo' tuck away any mo' now, yo' gwine have er haid lak er rainbar'l on yo' shouldahs in dee mawnin'! Yo' _knows_ yo' is!"