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. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then. Oh, it was very bad. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. “You shall drive home with me in a hansom, if you will.
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