ner. A great green and red and blue box of Baumgarten bonbons stood on a table covered with a square scarf which resembled an Italian futurist painting. Over the mantelpiece, on which two heavy vases of garnet and gold Bohemian glass seemed very much at home, hung a large picture in pure design by Jean Metzinger.
I wonder, Campaspe was thinking, if Zimbule lives up to this incongruous environment.
Zimbule, at last, came in. Her blond hair, turning at the roots, back to its natural colour, still framed her face in a nervous shock. She was wearing a neglige of coral sequins over Turkish trousers fashioned of gold cloth, and she plied a fan of ostrich plumes, unnaturally joined to prolong their length, of the colour of green jade. She was, Campaspe observed at once, as much at her ease as ever.
Campaspe! I'm so glad to see you.
You never come to me; so I had to come to you. You haven't been near me since . . .
Out! The girl flung her fan across the room. I'm trying to forget him. Love! Nothing in it.
But . . . Campaspe looked around.
Yes, Zimbule rematked blandly, crossing her legs as she seated herself on a great stuffed ottoman, I've capitalized my talents. Why not? They all do. Probably you did it yourself when you married—Campaspe did not even trouble to shake her head in denial of this. There was a sudden and
