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. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. Lucia dismissed the rumors, as it was not likely an archbishop would renege on his duties to become her personal doctor. ’ ‘I don’t know that there is so much to tell. I came to see you on my own account.
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