’ For a moment Melusine stared at him as she took in the full horror of his scheme. 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. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. In rushed Mr. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding.
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