What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. It wasn’t. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. ’ ‘Because you are a pig!’ retorted Melusine hotly. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged.
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