Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. "In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful.
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