“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. 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. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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