Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. I never even burrowed down into the trunk. So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. Did you see Lord Delafield and Miss Anderson? They packed me in with Colonel Anson and Mrs. Ten days should see you on your feet.
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