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 had asked her to lunch with her the next day, and then and there began a friendship based, on the part of the Countess, on a blind desire to discover an indulgent listener, and, on Campaspes part, on a willingness to listen. Then one day, the confessional had become a shambles. Throwing off what little remained of her reserve, the Countess had related the sorry details of her curiously monotonous career, like casting swine before pearls, Campaspe thought, and she wondered if she had been the Countess's only confessor save the priest, so complete was the woman's self-denigration and so passionate her enjoyment of it. Their relationship had assumed more formality after this breach in decorum—it is natural to turn against a person to whom you have told too much about yourself—and soon after Campaspe had left Paris. Since then, whenever she had visited the French capital, the Countess had been away en villegiature or in London, so that this was the first opportunity offered her to renew the acquaintanceship. Noting that the letter had been mailed two days earlier, she sent Frederika at once to the telephone with instructions.

In a few moments the maid returned. The Countess is not feeling very well, she explained, and does not wish to go out. She asks if you will lunch with her.

Of course, Campaspe replied. Tell her I shall be delighted.

On the way to the Ritz she recalled that she had