What will Cupid say? from Bunny.
Whatever he likes.
A dubious expression lurked between Zimbule's eyebrows, and Bunny crossed his fingers. The girl seemed as comfortable as if she had been accustomed to pass every evening in Paul's apartment, showing no curiosity. She was, Campaspe noted, oblivious to surroundings. Things, in themselves, meant nothing to her. Harold, she saw, was too self-conscious and embarrassed to eat.
After supper, Campaspe settled herself on a couch, with John Armstrong on the floor beneath her.
Lucky I came today, 'paspe. I thought I should never see you again. It's been six months since we met for the first time.
You really like me?
I adore you, 'paspe.
That's right . . . You Wall Street men! So substantial! No jaundice.
Paul turned to Harold: There won't be many days like this.
It doesn't matter. Father said . . .
Oh! I know. Strange bird, your father. I don't mind telling you I'm not wise.
What kind of women do you like? Campaspe was hailing Harold.
I like you. He was very much in earnest.
Very good for an amateur. You shall have your day, but this is John's night.
