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. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love.
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