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It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The blow was scarcely dealt, when, with a bound like that of a tiger, Blueskin sprang upon him. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She pulled away from him, placing her fingers on his lips for a moment. Briefly, with a careless wave towards the couple, the comtesse presented them as Monsieur and Madame Valade. It wasn't worth while to invest imaginatively a man with evil projects simply because he was physically ugly. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity.
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