You are her sister. . . .
Bosh! I didn't arrange that.
She seated him in a chair beside her, adjacent to the table, on which Frederika was laying out pots and bowls and cups, slices of lemon and slim sandwiches.
Frederika, Campaspe said, will you please run around the corner to the grocery and order some gin. We're all out. . . . She turned to Harold: Lemon or cream?
Lemon, please.
His hand shook, she observed, as he took the cup, but he was beginning to look more comfortable, appeared to be surer of his ground.
You've seen her? he questioned Campaspe eagerly. She's told you?
I've scarcely seen anybody else, it seems to me, looking back. She has been here nearly every day. She is sure that I know where you live.
You won't tell her, he pleaded.
I don't know.
But you will. . . .
Naturally, I won't tell her.
It was awful, Campaspe! he groaned.
A melodrama. It sounded incredible. But don't blame Alice. She didn't do it . . . She isn't clever enough to think of it, she added.
But she knew all about it. I blame her for that.
She loves you. Campaspe's manner was as simple as it was possible for her to make it.
