You can’t go. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. 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. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. “In fact, yes, I do. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. Miss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr. .
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