” “I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips. I can. ” “But I can’t do that. 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. "Jonathan Wild and Blueskin have got him into their hands," continued Mrs. "Perhaps that would have been best. I did not know what God had in mind then. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
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