sipping glasses of orange juice, into which Paul had dexterously inserted drops from the field-glass cases which Ki had prepared.
Feel better now, kid? asked John Armstrong.
I feel all right.
What is your name? Campaspe asked.
Wotschures?
Campaspe Lorillard.
Zimbule O'Grady.
Zimbule O'Grady, exclaimed Paul, with delight . . . Zim—
The girl misunderstood his tone. Don't you like it? she flared.
Paul was quick to aver that he adored it.
Bunny, whose mind, as usual, was wandering, accidentally saved the situation. He was sitting with his back to the corner, facing the entrance. Idly watching people coming in, his attention was attracted by a pair just about to sit down at a table across the room.
My God! 'paspe, he cried, look at Cupid!
Campaspe and the others turned to gaze across the long, vine-hung and trellised room, at a short, fat man, slightly bald, who stood beside a massive blonde, wearing a black dress, quivering with jet, an enormous hat, trembling with paradise plumes, and from whose wrists dangled enough gold-bags, vanity-cases, bracelets, chains, gold pencils, and bangles to set a minor Sixth Avenue merchant up in business.
