*** Madame la Comtesse de St Erme regarded the English major with a lacklustre eye, Gerald thought. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. 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. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested.
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