On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them. She was curious, and at the same time clearly resolved she must not hear it. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. His kisses drew deeper, he started unlacing her dress. 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. "I don't know his name. If a certain kink in your sense of honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a comrade. Well, let him be honest. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity.
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