“What can one say?” she exclaimed. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. 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. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. He might miss at this distance. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding.
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