bring forth more fruit. . . . I am the vine, ye are the branches. . . . She flipped the pages: Whither shall I go then from thy Spirit: or whither shall I go then from thy presence? If I take the wings of the morning: and remain in the uttermost parts of the sea . . . A veil of silver betraying violet shut the page from her eyes. Instead, rose a vision of the sufficing peacocks designed by Gaston Lachaise. She must have an avenue of these, carved from semi-precious stones: chalcedony, sardonyx, malachite, onyx, pink and black, brown and carnation jade, crystal, and chrysoprase. . . . The veil lifted and exposed a brilliant flight of butterflies: the White-letter Hairstreak, the Dingy Skipper, the Camberwell Beauty, and the Pearl-bordered Fritillary, sapphire and emerald butterflies, and one of pale silver. . . . And the book was open at the Veni Creator Spiritus:
And lighten with celestial fire.
Thou the anointing spirit art,
Who dost the sevenfold gifts impart. . . .
Campaspe fell asleep.
About three o'clock in the afternoon she awakened feeling refreshed. She was one of those who awaken from the deepest sleep to immediate consciousness, and she was at once aware that it was raining. The room was gloomy, the curtains at the
