There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. I’M shaken.
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