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. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. I do not love you. But I had to know for sure.
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