The Times slipped from his fingers. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. He saw her eyes pass him and settle on a fleetingly pretty strawberry blond girl and her effeminate father. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering.
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