John squeezed her hand. You're making fun of me, 'paspe.
She regarded him quizzically.
Towards two o'clock, Campaspe glanced at her wrist watch.
I must take the child home, she said. She must be tired.
Where is your child? Paul set down his cocktail glass. Both noted for the first time that Zimbule was no longer in the room.
Where is Bunny? demanded John Armstrong.
Paul rose and strode across the floor to the closed bedroom door. Opening it softly, he emitted a low chuckle. The others joined him.
The bed-lamp, shedding a soft amber glow, was still lighted. The floor was strewn with spangled crimson skirts, stockings the shade of blue-jay feathers, sequined caps, boots, trousers, shirts, chemises. . . . Under the sheet in Paul's superb bed, with a crest-emblazoned head-board shaped like the facade of a Dutch house and with its posts terminating in bleeding pomegranates, in this bed, which had once been the property of some Iberian grandee, lay Bunny and Zimbule, their bare arms entwined round each other's throats, their lips slightly parted, their eyes closed. They were asleep.
C'est Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée! whispered Paul.
Don't disturb them, said Campaspe quietly. They
