Don't be romantic, Cupid, was what she said. It seemed to her that she had thus adjured him several thousand times.
He faced her. Is it, he asked, because of . . . Zimbule?
What nonsense, Cupid. Go ahead enjoying yourself.
I'm not enjoying myself, he muttered morosely. I hate her.
Well, Cupid, she rejoined, smiling, and with as much kindliness as she could assume, taking into account her slight interest in the matter, I don't hate her at all. I like her.
He stood before her, perplexed. I don't understand you, Campaspe. What do you want? A divorce?
No, Cupid, I don't want a divorce. Do you?
Campaspe!
Well, there we are. Neither of us wants a divorce. We are a happily married couple like . . . Laura and her husband. Suddenly, she began to laugh. Cupid, she said, Fannie is getting married again.
I don't give a damn about Fannie! His face was red. It's you that I want to talk about. You're like a cake of ice! I don't believe you even have a lover!
Immediately this affront had passed his lips, he was apparently aghast that he had let it slip out,
