“Don’t!” she begged. 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. Arrived at the extremity of the building, he found that it overlooked the flat-roof of a house which, as far as he could judge in the darkness, lay at a depth of about twenty feet below. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. “It was the night you left Paris. Sheppard. Sheppard. It was an impulse. But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest.
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