She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. 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. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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