Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/34

 It hasn't turned out so badly in one way, Campaspe averred reflectively, as she began to count the coins in a Russian leather purse she had extracted from her hand-bag. He's been well taken care of. The late Mr. Whittaker's house is quite handsome in its sombre fashion, and Paul understands the art of arranging a dinner. Even Vera knows how to do that. But he's getting seedy, rusty. . . brain-fag, or the kind of fag that Paul would have instead of brain-fag. Why, I asked him to supper the other night, a very dull supper for some stupid professors, and he actually came. It discouraged me. The next thing we know Paul will go gaga.

It's his conscience, Laura asseverated sternly, getting the better of him. He knows that he has done wrong and he can get no more pleasure out of life. No one, she asserted categorically, can marry a fat, middle-aged woman for her money and remain happy.

You may be right, Laura. Campaspe yawned. What time is it getting to be?

Laura consulted her wrist. Around six. My watch is slow or fast, I forget which. Do you really want to know?

Approximately. I've got to. ..

Mrs. Moody, the maid announced.

Dear Vera, Laura rose to greet her caller.

Dear Laura, and Campaspe!

Vera, what a pleasure!