So he regarded the matter. But not so Mrs. Birtwell. As we have
seen, a painful sense of responsibility lay heavily upon her heart.
The winter that followed was a gay one, and many lag entertainments
were given. The Birtwells always had a party, and this party was
generally the event of the season, for Mr. Birtwell liked _eclat_
and would get it if possible. Time passed, and Mrs. Birtwell, who
had sent regrets to more than half the entertainments to which they
received invitations said nothing.
"When are we going to have our party?" asked Mr. Birtwell of his
wife as they sat alone one evening. He saw her countenance change.
After a few moments she replied in a low but very firm and decided
voice:
"Whenever we can have it without wine."
"Then we'll never have it," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, in considerable
excitement.
"It will be better so," returned his wife, "than again to lay
stumbling-blocks at the feet of our neighbors."
There came a sad undertone in her voice that her husband did not
fail to perceive.
"We don't agree in this thing," said Mr. Birtwell, with some
irritation of manner.
"Then will it not be best to let the party go over until we can
agree? No harm can come of that, and harm might come, as it did last
year, from turning our house into a drinking-saloon."
The sting of these closing words was sharp. It was not the first
time Mr. Birtwell had heard his wife use them, and they never failed
to shock his fine sense of respectability.
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