The dinner, on the verandah of the Claremont, was rather solemn. Zimbule ate little and did not talk at all. Cupid made a determined effort to entertain his wife. He had, she could see, caught a false strand of hope, and had woven dreams for himself out of it; she did not disillusion him. She was kind and gracious and even amusing. She did not try to draw Zimbule into the conversation. The girl, she was sure, would be happier quiet. Occasionally, even while she chattered, she gazed across to the lights on the black river and thought her own thoughts.
It was late when they had finished dinner, too late, she decided, to use their seats for the Follies, and she suggested that they drop into a Negro revue at the Forty-eighth Street Theatre for a half-hour or so. An amazing mulatto woman, Edith Wilson, who sang a song entitled. He may be your man but he comes to see me sometimes, held her attention for a few moments. Presently, she became aware that Cupid was finally awake to Zimbule's beauty. He was the last to observe just what was most obvious to others, she reflected. They drove home.
Escorted by Frederika, Zimbule slipped off at once to her room. Cupid, rather awkwardly, attempted to seize Campaspe's hand.
No, Cupid, don't misunderstand. . . .
The poor little man was ridiculous in his dejection.
