Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. 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 hit the villain with it. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. “I am just back from Paris. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it.
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