" "Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Lucy was surprised to hear that any party could happen on a week night, but the parents of the house in question were the rich absentee type.
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