There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. It is positively hateful to think of it. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. Stanley,’ I said. " She kindled with sympathy.
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