" "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames. 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. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. (“No, no. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. I find it impossible to associate you with—my little friend of the ‘Ambassador’s. Lord, I am sixty. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks.
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