But I am afraid I am a shockingly obstinate and a very ungrateful person. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. They fell into step again. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. A thousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon. “You said you were in love with me,” said Ann Veronica; “I wanted to explain —” “I said I loved and wanted you.
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