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. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked.
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