He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. ’ ‘Ah. She disengaged her hands and stood up. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. 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. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful.
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