but Campaspe's manner was not indicative that anything untoward had been said.
You are quite right, Cupid, she remarked quietly. I haven't.
Forgive me, Campaspe!
And now Cupid made another unusual move. He invaded her sacred bathroom. More curious—had he, she wondered, succumbed to emotion?—than annoyed, Campaspe slowly crossed the room and peered through the crack left at the hinges by the door slightly ajar. Cupid stood before the mirror combing his hair. Life, she assured herself, grew more amusing all the time. She was certain that she would remain young as her mother had. Getting bored was what aged people, and she was never bored.
The boys arrived about five, quiet, well-behaved, handsome lads. Esme, with his great dark eyes and his curly brown hair, had charm. He might turn into something. They were nice, both of them. Campaspe discovered that she was really fond of them and she was so kind to them that they stood before her transfixed with delight. They adored this mother of theirs and they saw so little of her.
A little later, Basil, alone with her, became confidential, sought advice. A Spanish boy, who shared his bedroom, had made a curious request. . . . Should I, mama? Must I?
