It's no good, Zimbule. You know what happened last night. Harold means it.
The girl sank into a chair and began to sob again, making a good deal of superfluous noise, Campaspe thought, and yet she was sorry for the child, and considered Harold a fool for not perceiving how infinitely superior was this lithe, little animal to her silly sister. He had made a stupid choice, but it was not her habit to interfere with other people's choices. Under the circumstances, however, she decided at once that she must keep the girl by her. Such tempestuous natures were capable of suicide. Campaspe was so entirely contented with life in general and her own participation in it in particular that it also occurred to her that she might go so far as to do something for Cupid. She infrequently dined at a public restaurant, more seldom still did she attend the theatre. It pleased Cupid to do these things, which to her were merely dull. Her imagination supplied her with so much better material than such casual experiences could give her. More and more she was finding it futile to leave her garden. In time, she began to believe, all the external life she needed would come to her. But tonight she might make an exception. Rapidly, she planned a dinner at the Claremont, and an evening at some musical show. She rang for Frederika.
Is Mr. Lorillard in the house?
He came in half an hour ago, madame. He is in his room dressing.
