“I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. Death belongs to God, young man. Pity you aren’t under my command. Mark stayed away from Lucy, which was just as Sheila liked it. 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. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were.
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