‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. 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. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. "I am very wicked," she said. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. We have a very nice set of young people here too just at present, and you would soon make some friends.
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