A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. We were going at a mad pace. 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. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Altogether different.
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