In the early days of summer Mr. and Mrs. Graham left the city for
one of the fashionable watering-places on the Gulf, accompanied by
Antoinette. Eugene remained, on some pretext of business, but
promised to follow in a short time. The week subsequent to their
departure saw a party of gentlemen assembled to dine at his house.
The long afternoon wore away; still they sat round the table. The
cloth had been removed, and only wine and cigars remained; bottle
after bottle was emptied, and finally decanters were in requisition.
The servants shrugged their shoulders, and looked on with amused
expectancy. The conversation grew loud and boisterous, now and then
flavored with oaths; twilight came on--the shutters were closed--the
magnificent chandelier lighted. Eugene seized a crystal ice bowl,
and was about to extract a lump of ice when it fell from his fingers
and shivered to atoms. A roar of laughter succeeded the exploit, and, uncorking a fresh bottle of champagne, he demanded a song.

Already a few of the guests were leaning on the table stupefied, but
several began the strain. It was a genuine Bacchanalian ode, and the
deafening shout rose to the frescoed ceiling as the revelers leaned
forward and touched their glasses. Touched, did I say; it were
better written clashed. There was a ringing chorus as crystal met
crystal; glittering fragments flew in every direction; down ran the
foaming wine, thick with splintered glass, on the rosewood table.
But the strain was kept up; fresh glasses were supplied; fresh
bottles drained; the waiters looked on, wondered where all this
would end, and pointed to the ruin of the costly service.