random. Beneath him, prone on the marble sward, a young nymph wept. The figures were surrounded by a curving row of stiff straight marble narcissi, the water dripping from their cups into the pool below, in which silver-fish played.
Charmed by the sun and the contradictory coolness of the day—nature, she had noted, could be as contradictory and perverse as life itself—, Campaspe, propped up against cushions, lay back in a comfortable chaise-longue. Frederika had followed her with a pile of books, which she placed on a table by the side of her mistress, but, for the moment, Campaspe did not disturb these. She closed her eyes and half-dreamed in the bliss of her security. She hoped that no one would call. She had too much to think about. Campaspe enjoyed being alone. In fact, it was essential to her happiness that she be alone for at least a part of every day, occasionally for the whole day, and sometimes for a period of two or three days. It was during these self-imposed isolations that she most thoroughly enjoyed the hours in which she was not alone. Retrospection, revery, was her pleasure, her desire, her vice. She had no other. Yet, today, she did not give orders that she was not receiving.
She picked up one of the books, a novel by Waldo Frank, of which she conned the title with some diso may. She had bought it under the impression that it was called Darkey Mothers. She was not interested in the true title. Nevertheless, she opened
