escape Zimbule. . . . I thought he might be here.
He'd sooner go to you, she mused, still blowing rings of grey smoke.
No, in some way he connects me with this plot. Of course, I don't know the first thing about it, but he doesn't know that. . . . He trusts you.
I'm fond of him, Campaspe remarked simply.
Frederika came back into the garden with the tea-tray which she deposited on the table, and Campaspe filled two cups, offering one to Paul, with a napoleon.
You don't suppose . . . he burst out suddenly, and then hesitated, appalled by the thought.
No, I don't, Paulet, she replied. He will turn up. I am not really disturbed when I consider his reason for leaving. Zimbule terrified him; that's all. He's probably gone toa hotel. He has plenty of money?
Heaps.
They talked a little longer. Paul, much too nervous to remain seated, walked up and down the narrow enclosure, finally taking his departure with the suddenness of his arrival.
The sun was sinking; the shadows on the flagstones had turned to deep indigo. Campaspe drank in the warm-cool air with delight. The scene was about to be played, the scene for which she had waited. The rebellion had broken out. Instinctively, she had felt the truth when she wrote Laura. Frederika came back into the garden.
