He has got five minutes' start of you. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures. 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. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. ‘I went to see him because I thought he ought to know about you, having already been imposed upon by our friend Gosse. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. You will stop at once. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. Do not mistake me.
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