another age, might come too. She must send to Brentano's for the book and reread it. Did Brentano's still keep the works of Ouida in stock? she wondered. Beyond question the serious books of Ouida were the best antidote she could think of for the serious books of this generation. At least, they were written in the grand manner. . . . Campaspe was enjoying her revery and her face changed expression for the worse as she saw Frederika emerging from the house. Her approach portended callers.
Mr. Moody is in the salon.
Oh! Paul. Campaspe was relieved. Bring tea, Frederika, and send him out.
Iced tea?
No, hot today. . . . And wait! Take these books in.
She pushed the rejected pile towards Frederika, who gathered them into her arms and retreated. Leaning back in her chair, almost recumbent, gazing at the azure sky through the rent canopy of leaves, Campaspe blew smoke rings lazily upwards. Glancing down, as Paul came through the door, she was aware at once that something had happened. His face wore a harassed expression and there were deep circles underneath his eyes. These, however, might be after-effects due to the Duke's opera.
'paspe, have you seen Harold? Paul was breathless.
Harold? No. What's happened to Harold?
