The brilliant gaslight shone on a scene of recklessness pitiable indeed.
All were young men, and, except Eugene, all unmarried; but they
seemed familiar with such occasions. One or two, thoroughly
intoxicated, lay with their heads on the table, unconscious of what
passed; others struggled to sit upright, yet the shout was still
raised from time to time.

"Fill up, and let us have that glorious song from Lucrezia Borgia.
Hey, Proctor!" cried Eugene.

"That is poor fun without Vincent. He sings it equal to Vestvali.
Fill up there, Munroe, and shake up Cowdon. Come, begin, and--"

He raised his glass with a disgusting oath, and was about to
commence, when Munroe said stammeringly: "Where is Fred, anyhow? He is a devilish fine fellow for a frolic.
I--"

"Why, gone to the coast with Graham's pretty wife. He is all
devotion. They waltz and ride, and, in fine, he is her admirer par
excellence. Stop your stupid stammering, and begin."

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."