They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. 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. “Actually, I am, it is terribly stupid.
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