I like you, you know, she added. . . . Good-night.
At the first landing, she peeped over the banisters for a glimpse of the pitiful figure standing alone below, and then she continued on her way upstairs. Before her desk she wrote a short note to her father, and sent Frederika with it to the nearest post-box on Irving Place. Then she went to Zimbule's room and tapped gently on the door.
Come in!
The child was lying nude on the bed, lovely in her despair as she had been the night before in her joy.
Are you feeling better, dear Zimbule?
Worse.
Do you want anything?
You know damn well what I want.
The girl began to cry again and Campaspe, sitting on the edge of the bed, bending over her, found it difficult to quiet her. She began to stroke the girl's head. Silently, her hand glided back and forth. Quite suddenly, a strange thing happened. Zimbule, Campaspe observed, had fallen into a deep sleep. She stole back on tiptoe to her own chamber. Frederika was waiting for her and, with her maid's assistance, she prepared for bed.
I shall not read tonight, Frederika. Put out the lights . . . and good-night.
Good-night, madame.
