but with a blind animal instinct, into the darkened vestibule and, as she was fitting her key in the lock, drew her quickly to him and kissed her, perforce, on the throat, as she had turned her head away.
Good-night, John, she said in an even voice, as she swung the door open.
Good God, Campaspe!
She slipped through the open doorway and shut the door behind her, not ostentatiously slamming it in his face, but closing it softly. Nevertheless, she noted, to John the effect wore the same air of finality. Through the eyes in the back of her head she was aware that he hesitated for a moment, dazed, before he walked away.
Campaspe, meanwhile, ascended the stairs, entered her chamber, and pressed a button, flooding the pleasant room with light. The soft toile de Jouy hangings at the windows blew gently back and forth with the refreshing breeze. The bed with its delicate linen was spread open, waiting for her. Frederika, her maid, following instructions, had long since retired, and Campaspe did not awaken her. It was with rather a sensuous feeling that she slipped off her clothes, and stood before a long mirror, regarding herself. At length, she donned a night-gown of French hand-manufacture and the colour of champagne, as filmy as it is possible for such a garment to be made. Over her shoulders she drew a neglige of the shade of the green orchid, as she sat down before her dressing-table, an elabo-
