Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. "You're right Jack," he said, after a pause, during which he contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: "this must have been my father!" "No doubt of it," answered Sheppard; "only compare it with Winny's drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead.
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