The sailor was now passing the house. The wind was high and as he walked abreast of the window the umbrella tilted far back, exposing the young man's face.
The rule remains unbroken, Campaspe cried. It isn't a sailor at all. It's the Duke!
The Duke?
The Duke of Middlebottom. I thought he was in Capri, but he's always travelling about in some disguise or other. How delightful of him to come here. He will assist in Harold's education.
Is he the man you told me about . . . the man who gave those parties in London?
Yes.
God help Harold!
Oh! We'll look out for Harold. What a splendid prank. I wonder what can he be up to?
A little later, after Paul had gone and it had grown quite dark, Campaspe still lingered in the drawing-room. Frederika came in to light the lamps, but Campaspe requested the maid to leave the room dark. It was still drizzling outside and the drops of rain rattled against the window-panes. The rain fell interminably this summer. Campaspe sat quietly in a high-backed chair, resting her chin on her palm, thinking . . . Presently she heard a step in the hall.
Is that you, Cupid? she called.
