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. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. I’ve wanted you—always. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate.
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