"Allow me to assist you, Sir James," said Hogarth. She let out a wail. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. The likeness was ridiculous. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. “Is it your maid?” he asked. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths.
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