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. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Bête, she told herself fiercely. He reached over and took her hand. "Well, Jack," he said, after a pause, "are you disposed to go back quietly with me?" "You'll ascertain that when you attempt to touch me," rejoined Sheppard, resolutely. " "I promise to ask no more. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. The thing is done.
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