“What is going on between you two?” Lucy asked. ‘I’ll make you an offer. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. It is queer, but men of education and good birth fall swiftest and lowest. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque.
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