She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. 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. She learned quickly, absorbing all she could as quickly as possible as her adoration grew for him. It had been a trying day. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. “Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. I want him as my friend. Gregory B.
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