The last piece was Scheherazade. 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 read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. In the beginning Ah Cum would run his glance speculatively over the assortment and select that individual who promised to be the most companionable. This way there will be not so much shame, and the vicomte will let them remain. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before.
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