If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. The wall of St. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty. 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 can. He was in front of one of the more imposing of the cafés chantants—opposite, illuminated with a whole row of lights, was the wonderful poster which had helped to make ‘Alcide’ famous. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind.
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