I am marrying Mrs. Whittaker, the card read. Il faut tant d'argent pour être bohême aujourd'hui.
Nice old Paulet! However you toss him, Campaspe reflected, he lands on his feet.
She walked over to the window, and looked down upon the pavement covered with a thin film of ice, the heaps of white snow in the street. It had begun to snow again. The warm room now seemed more comfortable to her. Her mood was idle, listless, and she sat for some time before the fire, thinking about her mother.
At one o'clock a strange thing happened. Cupid returned for lunch. She could not remember that this had ever happened before.
The boys are coming home, he explained, sheepishly.
But not until late this afternoon, she countered, not unsympathetically, however. The poor man looked troubled, worried, harassed. Was it, she wondered, money?
Cupid, is anything the matter? If it's money, I could help you. . . .
Her words threw the gates open. Money! he flared up. Money! It's you. Can't you . . . Won't you . . . Campaspe, do you hate me?
Looking at him, she noted tears in the poor creature's eyes. No, she didn't hate him, she reflected, but he was very tiresome, and more than a little ridiculous.
