They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. But Gerald took it for the routine interest in an eligible bachelor, although he was aware many females had an eye for scarlet regimentals. 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. "Get about your business!" "Thames!" cried Jack, beckoning to his friend. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. "Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand.
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