Melusine opened her eyes at him. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. 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. It will take a month to clean up. One must be on guard. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. At least for one moment, it was. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time. She held up the lamp.
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