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. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. " "Keep it," said Trenchard, haughtily. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers.
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