"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The party, then, sat down to a bowl of punch; and, at its conclusion, Captain Kneebone regretted that an engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. “Holcroft,” he remarked, “in bald language, and with the usual limitations of his clouded intellect, has still given some slight expression to the consternation which I believe I may say is general amongst us. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
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