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‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. He knocked at the door. Brendon. 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. Have you seen much of her lately?” “Nothing at all,” he answered. .
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