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? My God, the pity of it! She knows nothing of life. ” She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. "Jonathan has threatened to do her some mischief. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh.
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