"I am, Charcoal. ’ Melusine could not suppress a smile. 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 popcorn dwindled to a half a bucket, his heart settled into its normal routine. “You’re a student, perhaps?” said the tall woman.
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