One morning, late in December, Campaspe was awakened by a revolutionary assault on her privacy. A lady wrapped in a long sable mantle, with a shako of monkey-fur standing erect on her head and fitting so closely that it gave the curious effect of being her own hair, exploded into the room.
Campaspe, my darling!
Rudely awakened, Campaspe found herself in her mother's arms.
Fannie! My precious Fannie!
My own!
My beloved!
My favourite daughter!
Did you have a good crossing?
Awful! I feel nine years older.
Campaspe contemplated this woman who had the indecency to be her mother: an exquisite oval face without a single line; narrow eyebrows that arched like some architectural masterpiece; eyes as blue as velvet pansies; a straight, slender nose; and a mouth that invited kisses. The open mantle revealed a figure as pimpant as Mary Garden's, and the anklelength skirt exposed a foot like Cinderella's. An
