He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face. 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 had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. ” “Girls!” cried Ann Veronica. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be.
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