Section 1. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. 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. He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. He recoiled from the sting. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. He had deliberately saved it for last.
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