“My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. I intend to remain very serious indeed while I’m doing it. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. “Forty guineas a week. There were words, then, that ran on indefinitely, with reversals? Here they meant one thing; there, the exact opposite.
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