Nigel Ennison was he. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. 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 unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked.
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