He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. Headed by Jonathan, all the turnkeys then repaired to the upper part of the jail, and, approaching the Red Room by a circuitous route, several doors were unlocked, and they came upon the scene of Jack's exploits. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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