scended the flagstones to meet Campaspe, who was standing near the fountain.
Campaspe clasped her hand. I know, dear Zimbule, she said. Harold has just been here.
The girl threw her arms about Campaspe's neck, her yellow head drooping, and gave way to a passionate fit of sobbing.
I'm too late! she cried.
Rather, too early, corrected Campaspe. He will want you later when you don't want him.
He told you . . .
He told me nothing. Paul was here before him, and Paul had seen Drains.
Where's Harold now?
He went home.
Zimbule made a movement towards the door. I'll follow him!
Campaspe gently caught the girl's arm.
No, dear Zimbule, you won't do that. It would do no good. The boy is in love.
Zimbule stared hard at Campaspe.
With you?
No, with my sister.
Zimbule, looking straight into Campaspe's eyes, could not doubt that she told the truth.
Did you know this last night? she demanded.
I learned it for the first time five minutes ago.
Are you going to help them?
Yes.
Against me?
