By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing.
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