“Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler. 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 little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. "The gen'l'man as hired us," replied the chairman. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow.
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