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 sphere save that by no means modest share which she locked in her own bosom?

The distractions were various. A cabinet-maker arrived for the purpose of restoring a Boulle desk of which a great deal of the brass scroll-work was missing, but, after an interview with him, Campaspe decided to leave the wreck, for the time being, in its present condition. The artisan was so little conversant with the properties of this type of furniture that he had even referred to the tortoise-shell as lacquer. A little later, she tried some Chinese records, which had just been sent to her, on the phonograph, and was amazed to discover how clear and pellucid, how limpidly lovely, this music was. It was the kind of music, indeed, that the more sophisticated French and Spanish composers were just beginning to compose, and Chinese music had always been referred to as ugly noises! I might have known, she averred to herself, that a race which has understood every other art for centuries would not be backward in the art of music. And she marvelled that it had been possible for any admirer of Mozart to disregard the magic of this oriental melody with its odd rhythms, its rigidly irregular monotony, and its fascinating clang-tints. From Chinese music her thoughts escaped to a consideration of the curiously sure genius of a young Mexican boy, Miguel Covarrubias, who created caricatures of celebrities, whom he knew only by sight and name,