lustre ware in which were growing forced geranium trees, nearly three feet tall, the stalks bare, bursting, at the top, into clusters of scarlet blossoms framed in velvet-green. She moved to the piano and touched the keys. On the rack was a jumble of sheets, in great disorder, pages of this laid between pages of that, fox-trots and jazz tunes, music by Manuel de Falla and Darius Milhaud. She mentally noted her intention of purchasing some American Indian and Spanish gipsy records for her victrola. She rang the bell. Are there brioches, Frederika? Mr. Moody likes brioches. Yes, madame. Again it occurred to her to wonder if Paul would bring Harold.
When at last he was announced, he had come alone. Sensitive to impressions, he was immediately aware of her disappointment and of the occasion for it.
You wanted me to bring Harold, he said. Of course, I intended to bring him, but he has not been near me today. I'm afraid last night was more than he expected.
I hope the poor boy is not too alarmed. He is reluctant, Paulet. . . .
Frederika bore in the tea in a miniature alabaster pot, set, together with three alabaster cups without handles, on an engraved and filigreed alabaster tray. Campaspe was standing by the mantel. Raising an ancient burnished copper mirror with a phœnix
