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 told Emile. “Please call me Carol. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. ‘I knows how to do better nor any surgeon. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Then enter Mr.
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