Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. An unwelcome idea came to him. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart.
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