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. I am your servitor. Heaven will not permit the continuance of such wickedness as you practise. " "Thank'ee, Sir," grinned Sheppard. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments.
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