It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. I thought every one had heard about it. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. “Number 13, please, cabman. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. His statement was treated with derision.
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