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. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. " "Pray do so, Madam," retorted Mrs. " Thames complied. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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