She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket.
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