"No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. Returning in moments, Mr. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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