She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said.
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