The year had begun with an exhausting day. The first guest had come before nine and it was getting toward six when Chalender rang at the closed door. The RoBards family was jaded with the procession of more or less befuddled visitors, for everybody still called on everybody and drank too much too often. Harry Chalender had tried to see if he could not establish a record in calls. He reached the RoBards house in a pitiable condition. He was dressed like the fop he always was, his hair curled, oiled, and perfumed; his handkerchief scented; his waistcoat of a flowery pattern, his feet in patent leathers glossy as of yore. His breath was even more confusedly aromatic with cloves than usual. He apologized thickly: “Patty, I think I’ve done something to give me immortalily at lash. I’ve called at shixy-sheven house between nine ’s morn’ and five ’s even’n. And I’ve had ’s much cherry bounce I’m full of elasticicy. I har’ly touch ground. And wines—oh, Patty! I’m a human cellar. And food—stewed oyssers, turkey, min’ spies! But I always come back to you, Patty, and to Immy. Seem’ you and your livin’ image, Immy, I can’t tell whish is whish; I half suspect I’m seem’ double. Am I or—am I?” Giggling fatuously over his wit, he fell asleep. Patty regarded him with anger, and RoBards with disgust; but both were dazed to see that Immy smiled and placed a cushion under his rolling head. Drunkenness was beginning to lose its charm. In 1846 New York had voted against the licensing of liquor dealers by a large majority. Maine had followed with a law prohibiting the sale or manufacture of all strong drinks under penalty of fine or imprisonment. Three years later New York passed a copy of the Maine law and the Temperance party’s candidate won the governorship. But nobody was punished; clubs were formed with no other bond than thirst. The edict was found to be a source of infinite political corruption, general contempt for law, and tolerance for lawbreakers. It collapsed at last and was repealed as a failure. All the old people agreed that the good old times were gone. Much as RoBards had despised the immemorial tendency of old people to forget the truth of their own youth and prate of it as a time of romantic beauty, he found himself despairing of these new times. The new dances were appalling. The new drinks were poison. The new modes in love were unheard of. Once more he was wondering if it were not his duty to horsewhip Chalender or to kill him. The horror of involving his wife in scandal restrained him before; now his daughter was concerned.