She understood. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. One would think I had agreed to her going. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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