She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. It was not possible. She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. The one I have is a duplicate. 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. “You remind me of the story which they tell against us over here, you know—of the Englishman who refused to be saved from drowning because he was unacquainted with his rescuer. With this she now entered.
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