"An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. She finished the olive and looked up. Taber is the name. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “That was a moment of madness,” she said. Ireton, you are in league with him.
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