The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. I spoke a thought aloud. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. 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. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled.
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