At one side, rank on rank of books ran from floor to ceiling; others
were scattered about in chairs, on stands and on the floor. At one
spot the wall was racked with glittering, and to her, strange looking
instruments. An open door gave a glimpse of a second apartment with
bare, plastered wall, fitted with tables covered with sheet lead and
cluttered with tanks, grotesquely swelling retorts, burners, jars and
other things that make up a complete laboratory.
But these told her nothing, except that the man was a student; and
this she had heard before.
So she gave her attention to Ashton-Kirk himself. He stood by the open
window, the morning light beating strongly upon his dark, keen face,
apparently watching the uncouth surging in the street below.
"He's very handsome and very wealthy," her friend Connie Bayless had
informed her only that morning. "Comes of a very old family; has the
entree into the most exclusive houses, but practically ignores
society."
"Oh, yes, I know him," her uncle, an eminent attorney, had told her.
"A very unusual young man. I might call him acutely intellectual, and
he is an adept in many out of the way branches of knowledge. He would
make a wonderful lawyer, but has too much imagination.
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