“It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. D'ye hear. He hated horizons. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat.
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