" "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. “Lucy! Where is my daughter? Where have you. ” She said under her breath.
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