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. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. ‘I was just looking the place over when I heard you calling out.
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