shrill little cries, mingled with the clucks of the good-natured Negress, scrubbing her mistress's back, could be heard.
Harold lay back in bed. He was wearing a suit of yellow silk pajamas which Zimbule had unaccountably discovered in a chest of drawers. They were, it may be said, too small for him. The little gilt French clock on the mantelpiece struck two in clear bell-like tones. Harold realized that he was losing track of time, that he was drifting. The voyage to Cythera had proved unexpectedly pleasant. The voyage back? Why go back? he asked himself. Why not continue to live on Cythera, a joyous, careless island, with a quaint little animal in the shape of a fascinating woman leaping about in the shadows of the great trees, plunging in the pools, lying with him on the banks of velvet moss. Why go back? Harold tried to think what back would be like. Again, as before, it all seemed hazy, dreamlike. He could not see any of the figures in his past very clearly. His father's face he could not recall at all. Alice seemed a conventional figure, any conventional figure, a type. Paul had assumed the veil. . . . Even Aunt Sadi and Persia Blaine and Miss . . . what was her name? . . . Perkins. Only Campaspe emerged from his memory complete and definite. Campaspe! He must go to call on her, thank her. They must go together. She would understand. Approve? She would not disapprove; of that he was certain. He could not re-
