“Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. 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. But, if I were in your place, I know what I'd do—" "What—what would you do?" asked Hogarth, eagerly. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned.
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