There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. "Women ought never to show themselves on these occasions, unless they can behave themselves properly. I am certainly no ghost. . All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. He tried to make love to me. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. Men usually do. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue.
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