Campaspe . . . Couldn't things be different between us? Couldn't you? .
She rose with a look of determination. It's quite impossible. . . . Her tone was firmer now. . . . It's no good going over it. You must understand that it is quite impossible. We have our children, and it is very comfortable living this way. So long as you are satisfied, I am content, but anything else is quite impossible.
Campaspe!
She was leaving the room, but she turned back to face him. In her face now there was an expression of definite displeasure. Her square jaw was set hard.
Do, please, she said, stop pronouncing my name like a moonstruck savage.
Where are you going? His look was haunting, intense, pitiful, helpless.
I am going to change my dress.
Are you dining at home tonight? He was almost pathetic.
I had intended to . . . but now, I don't know. I can't bear you when you're sentimental.
I'll promise . . . he choked . . . not to be.
And you'll stop apologizing?
Yes.
And you'll talk about something else than me?
Ye-es.
And do get over looking moonstruck, Cupid, and,
