Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. "Only my darbies," returned Jack, clinking his chains. Not Trodger. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand. Her head ached with a hollow pain.
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