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Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary channels. He glanced up at the coachman. 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. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. “Steady on!” he cried. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree.
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