Campaspe veiled her curiosity. So do I, was all she said.
At rehearsal that evening she observed that Zimbule had begun her siege. Bunny, brought thither to arrange or compose the music for the Duke's opera, sulked in a corner. The Duke had evolved the idea of reviving music by Salvatore Vigano, music entirely antipathetic to the mood of the piece. Bunny, on the contrary, wanted to fit the play with music by Arthur Honegger, or possibly something by himself.
The Duke shrugged his shoulders. Zimbule was whispering to the embarrassed Harold in a corner.
I think, growled Bunny, I'd like to write some modern jazz for this show.
The Duke began to brighten. That, he remarked, would be as good as music by Vigano. Jazz for a B-B-B-Byzantine play! He urged Bunny to carry out his idea.
Bunny scowled. He had no idea. His temper was one of opposition, and he had given voice to the first contradiction that had surged into his brain. His mind, on the whole, was not on jazz. Zimbule was wearing a gown of rose charmeuse, without a single decoration or ornament. Her movements and gestures were all quick and abandoned. She buzzed about Harold like a brilliant hummingbird hovering over a tropical flower. The tropical flower, it was perceivable, belonged to the vegetable kingdom. It made no false effort to enter
