She tried to be casual. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. And for me there is only one treasure-house. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. Fast asleep, he is. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face.
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