Quilt was not long in following his example. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. 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. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. “But you’re wrong. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly.
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