Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. 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. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. This man has an evil reputation. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise.
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