I am not angry with you, but with this—this—’ ‘Idiot? Imbecile?’ offered Gerald in a helpful tone. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. He flipped the television off. It would be the culmination of her plan. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. The aunt laughed. 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. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. CHAPTER XIV.
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