Zimbule was direct: I'm not going home with you, Bunny.
You can't do that to me! His tone was appealing rather than threatening.
I'm not going home with you. Don't make a row. It won't do any good. I'm roosting with Campaspe.
Oh! God! Zimbule, what have I done? What's the matter? The boy began to weep.
Cut that! You haven't done anything. . . . I'm going home with Mrs. Lorillard.
She was determined: this much was apparent even to a vision obscured by tears. Bunny stepped back, splashing himself like an ugly blot against the blue wall, and the three women made their way out.
Good-night, Campaspe, whispered Zimbule, as she kissed her friend. Good-night.
She slipped into the waiting taxi, after a direction to the chauffeur, uttered in too low a voice for Campaspe to catch it, and the vehicle shot away into the black night.
Harold was the last to leave, for Bunny had slunk out as soon as he caught the sound of departing wheels. Harold did not even meet the Duke in the corridor and, as the door of his bedroom was closed, he refrained from knocking. After hesitating a moment in the deserted street, he decided to walk home; it was so hot and so quiet. Turning into Fifth Avenue, brilliantly lighted in
