with some intensity and was obviously interested in what he was about to say.
Out with it! she commanded, and her voice, clear and soft and sympathetic, although it contained a suggestion of mockery, was not lacking in force or intention.
Yes, I must tell you. . . . He'll be here in a few minutes, Paul groaned.
Campaspe remained silent, blowing delicate and wistful rings of smoke into the air.
Do you remember the poet who was too proud to die and who sent his servant out into the street to beg for him? . . . I had to do something; you will admit that?
Campaspe did not help him.
I couldn't go on. Father won't send me another dollar.
If you are going to give Mrs. Whittaker the honour of keeping you, tell me this instant, Campaspe interpolated.
It's not quite as bad as that. It isn't marriage.
I never had any such idea.
Oh! It isn't that either!
Well, Paulet, what is it?
Campaspe regarded her sheer white stockings with some interest; her eyes followed on down to her trim shoes of white suede, which fastened across the ankles with a curious arrangement of straps with chalcedony buttons.
