Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. It was for ever. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. She had agonized over it for weeks. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. ‘Certainly no one will find it.
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