She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.
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