If only Gerald would come. Perhaps because I don’t know. I shall count it a privilege. She remembered Taber's hat. She had agonized over it for weeks. 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. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed.
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