Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. ‘Why not a French flag?’ ‘Because I don’t believe that fool Pottiswick could tell French from Arabic, even if he heard it as he says he did—which I take leave to doubt. Not enough of them to make a difference. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs.
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