Mrs. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. " "Pray come to the point, Sir," said Mrs. She asked no further questions for the moment. "The poor young man!" she said. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. You had better go to bed. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. "Five guineas. She sings twice a week at the ‘Ambassador’s’ and the ‘Casino Mavise’——” Sir John held up his hand.
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