Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. 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. "I see. Things seem to come rather easily. “Mr. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered.
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