’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. He was not a sailor. Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. He had. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. 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 delighted in frustrating him. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered.
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