five years but had never seen his wife's feet. He had been certain that her feet were ugly or deformed or that they suffered from one of the diseases that feet suffer from. Looking at this child, exquisite in her lack of shame, her natural ignorance of an occasion for it, Campaspe assured herself that the man had judged his wife justly.
You are lovely, she said.
Zimbule, already silent for some time, said nothing now, but her face brightened with an appreciative smile, and there was something interrogative also in her expression.
I wonder if he will think so, she breathed at last.
Frederika had returned with their white evening gowns, and she helped them to don them. Campaspe, dressed first, directed her maid to draw on Zimbule's stockings and her little satin shoes.
Shall I ask you both to my house tomorrow? was her suggestion.
Zimbule threw her a swift glance of gratitude. I shan't wait till tomorrow, she said, the colour mounting to her cheeks. She had rubbed off the last vestige of make-up, but she was still as rosy as a country milk-maid.
Tomorrow, too, if you like, Campaspe encouraged.
Oh! well! We'll be in bed, I hope.
Some one was pounding on the door.
Who's there? Campaspe demanded.
