Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/176

 A quarter of an hour later, Gareth and Campaspe were sitting in a small reception-room, which they occupied alone, on a curly maple settle, more picturesque than comfortable. In the distance, Paul Whiteman's band was playing Mama Loves Papa. The castenets snarled, the saxophone scolded, the banjos barked. Campaspe had thrown off her cloak of flamingo feathers, and was fingering the choker of moonstones that encircled her throat.

We haven't discussed your books yet, she remarked, not without malice.

Don't! he groaned. Everybody upstairs talked about them. If only they'd say something. He brightened. Maybe you would!

Campaspe's smile was sardonic. I haven't read them, she began, but I can ask you questions. Do you believe in working regularly so many hours each day or do you wait until the spirit moves you?

Devil! Madrilena was right. You have expressive feet. I'd like to write a book about your feet. He was examining the objects of his interest.

Smooth-shod.

What a title! May I borrow it?

Campaspe yawned. At this juncture Frederic Richards, accompanied by the girl with sea-foam hair, passed through the room.

Have you seen his drawings?

Whose drawings?

That was Frederic Richards.