It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. 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. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. “Not too bad.
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