It was the morning of the third day. Harold awoke, immersed, as usual, in a vast sea of rose satin and lace, and looked up at the rococo cupids high over his head. Through an open window the bright sunlight entered. Presently, he knew, Desdemona would appear with their breakfast on a tray. Zimbule was still asleep. He wondered if he could get out of bed without waking her. A mild form of curiosity impelled him to attempt this feat, but no sooner had he lifted a corner of the covers than Zimbule cast her arm across his body. Smiling, he fell back into the soft bed, and she, content once more, ran her slender fingers through his thick hair.
They had been lovers for two days. Zimbule had telephoned the studio that she was ill, too ill to work, and had kept Harold with her in this Riverside Drive apartment, which she had furnished for Love, but until now Love had not abided there. Now, however. He seemed to have entered into every object in the place. Not only the gilded plaster Cupids were instinct with life; the silver and ivory on the toilet-table vibrated with passion; the
