t himself and his own birth and breeding as to place a
chair at his table for a man in every way beneath him. Hospitality of
that kind was understandable in men like Kennedy and Latrobe--one the
leading literary light of his State, whose civic duties brought him in
contact with all classes--the other a distinguished man of letters as
well as being a poet, artist, and engineer, who naturally touched the
sides of many personalities. So, too, might Richard Horn be excused for
stretching the point--he being a scientist whose duty it was to welcome
to his home many kinds of people--this man Morse among them, with his
farcical telegraph; a man in the public eye who seemed to be more or
less talked about in the press, but of whom he himself knew nothing, but
why St. George Temple, who in all probability had never read a line
of Poe's or anybody else's poetry in his life, should give this sot a
dinner, and why such sane gentlemen as Seymour, Clayton, and
Pancoast should consider it an honor to touch elbows with him, was as
unaccountable as it was incredible.

Furthermore--and this is what rankled deepest in his heart--St. George
was subjecting his only son, Harry, to corrupting influences, and at a
time, too, when the boy needed the uplifting examples of all that was
highest in men and manners.

"And you tell me, Alec," he blazed out on hearing the details, "that
the fellow never appeared until the dinner was all over and then came in
roaring drunk?"

"Well, sah, I ain't yered nothin' 'bout de roarin', but he suttinly was
'how-come-ye-so'--fer dey couldn't git 'im upstairs 'less dey toted him
on dere backs. Marse George Temple gin him his own baid an' sot up mos'
ob de night, an' dar he stayed fur fo' days till he come to. Dat's what
Todd done tol' me, an' I reckon Todd knows."

The colonel was in his den when this conversation took place. He was
generally to be found there since the duel. Often his wife, or Alec, or
some of his neighbors would surprise him buried in his easy-chair, an
unopened book in his hand, his eyes staring straight ahead as if trying
to grasp some problem which repeatedly eluded him. After the episode at
the club he became more absorbed than ever. It was that episode, indeed,
which had vexed him most. Not that St. George's tongue-lashing worried
him--nor did Harry's blank look of amazement linger in his thoughts. St.
George, he had to confess to himself as he battled with the questions,
was the soul o