As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. 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. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. She was conscious the whole conversation of Michelle, trying to divine what the girl was planning to do. Just now the waterchestnuts…. I’d to go to Remenham House as well, and show Pottiswick your letter of authorisation.
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