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. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She crushed the letter in her hand.
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