There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. She was shifting, moving back. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal.
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