As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Because of the Dance. She gave up as he finished, spending himself in her mouth. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. The stain was blood, but this was a stain that resulted from being up one’s elbows in blood! She smiled a nurse’s knowing smile. 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. "Lean on me," said Jack. ” “Such independence,” he answered quickly, “is a vice. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. .
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