"To-morrow I will take you to him. ” Lucy chuckled at the sacrilegious comment, though it was a very old one. 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. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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