If she wanted men to battle beasts in combat, a festival arose for them to battle for her. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described.
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