She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. 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. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. "Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the powers! I'm glad to see you. I freely forgive you. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. I do not understand why you and your sister should not see more of one another.
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