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. ‘Never fear, my love. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. ” “It might become one,” he answered. And I've made up my mind that a husband ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he sees.
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