I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears. He did not move. I have hurt and snubbed poor Teddy. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd.
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