“Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. Martin's on Ludgate-hill, and Christchurch in Newgate Street, were also distinguishable. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. 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. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had.
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