Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. 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. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter.
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