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. Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. All houses of means had not only a maid but usually a whole staff of servants. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches.
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