"Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. 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. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. The imbecile.
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