While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. His orgasm was quick, spasmodic. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards. Not a word passed between them. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic.
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