She had no idea what she should do. She did not wait, but grabbed up the lantern and slid into the passage, calling to them to hurry. “I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. Probably a sick man's whim. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. 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. Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs.
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