In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. "O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. . 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. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. ‘But you are idiot. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed.
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