"A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his pocket. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean. “Well?” he asked her tersely. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. I was curious about that. Lucy looked about confusedly. 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. .
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