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 shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. The worst was over now. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?” He avoided the invitation of her eyes.
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