“Women are mocked,” she said. 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 vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. ‘Please to sit, monsieur. "Auntie?" he cried. ’ ‘You mean imbecile, don’t you?’ Gerald said, and turned his head to share the joke with Melusine.
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