plating this scene. The American home, she mused, as she sat before the fire, smoking a cigarette. I have achieved it . . . along with something else. . . . But presently her thoughts drifted to her garden, her dear garden, which she must bid good-bye; Eros, blindfold, his bow hanging with icicles, the nymph below buried in the snowdrift. . . .
A week later, Campaspe, wrapped in a heavy moleskin cloak, walked the ship's deck. It was Christmas morning, bright, clear, and cold. The ship sped on through the frigid, green waves. Presently, Frederika appeared with the rugs, and a pile of books. Well tucked in and protected from the crisp December ocean wind, Campaspe sat idly in the bright sunlight, watching sky and sea. She knew, she fancied, nobody aboard. There were, indeed, few passengers. . . . She examined the books she had selected for this journey: Marmaduke Pickthall's Oriental Encounters, Le Livre de Goha le Simple. . . . She had some faint intention of visiting the Orient. . . . Stendhal's Armance: she could not read these now. She had no desire, she found, to read at all. Then, immediately, she regretted that she had brought no book by Huysmans, Huysmans who had said: There are two ways of ridding ourselves of a thing which burdens us, casting it away or letting it fall. To cast away requires an effort of which we may not be capable,
