THAMES DARRELL. 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. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing. He was inclined to be a good-natured person, and he had no nervous fears of receiving a snub. “Of course, I remember now.
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