his early bringing up, the inadequate and unworldly supervision of Aunt Sadi and Persia Blaine. And this was his father's doing! To be sure, his aunt and Persia had meant well; they had loved him . . . but they had not been capable of preparing him for the perils he had to face.
Paul, that day, and for several days following, was rather inclined to be distrait, and Harold, silent concerning the only matter which really interested him, on his part found comparatively little to say. He encountered Campaspe on several occasions, and once or twice, he fancied, he saw her looking at him with sympathy, but they were never alone, and mainly she was preoccupied with gossip about the Duke of Middlebottom, who had arrived, unaccountably, in New York in June.
June, he had remarked to Campaspe, is the London season; why not make it the New York season as well? I told him, Campaspe repeated in her narrative to Paul, that all he would need was an impresario to produce an opera or two, three or four ladies of society, and a climate. His answer was direct. He said, and it is perfectly true, that New York is cooler than London in the summer, that wherever I was there was sure to be society, and that he would give the opera himself. He is committed to some such plan.
Bunny and Zimbule, also, offered matter for discussion. They were much talked about and, when
