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Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. ‘Why not a French flag?’ ‘Because I don’t believe that fool Pottiswick could tell French from Arabic, even if he heard it as he says he did—which I take leave to doubt. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth.

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