member that Campaspe had ever disapproved of anything or any one.
In a few days, a week, whenever Zimbule was ready, they would return to the studio, resume work. His heart . . . Zimbule interrupted his revery. Play a tune, Des! she wascrying. Desdemona emerged from the bathroom, wiping her eyes. Her head was dripping with water; Zimbule had spattered her. All right, honey chile, all right. She moved, flat-footed, across the room. Harold noted her thin legs, her long, narrow feet. . . . No use crying! shouted Zimbule from the bathroom, and then, No! I've got what it takes, but it breaks my heart to give it away!
All right, Miss Jimbool! Desdemona was arranging the disk in the Viennese room. The strains soon filtered in through the open doorway. Zimbule, nude, reappeared in the bedroom, and moved to the rhythm across the rose-carpeted floor. Perching on the bed, she kissed Harold's eyes and ears and throat, while he lay perfectly still, entranced with delight.
When are we going back to work? he asked.
Oh! I don't know. . . . Tired?
Tired! His tone was reproachful. I don't care if we stay here for ever!
Then we will. She kissed him again.
It bre-aks my heart to give itaway! She dragged him to the floor. Come on! Let's dance. Dancing, as it happened, was not one of Harold's accom-
