While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. But you must tell her. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. "So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it.
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