But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. 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. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight.
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