She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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