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 him—that convinces you that he's happy straight through. It's queer, the whole thing—you know I can't explain anything very well. I thought you'd explain it, he concluded lamely.

Campaspe seldom permitted her cynicism to colour her tone. She uttered the following phrase in a voice instinct with the deepest charm: Paulet, you're exactly like Tyltyl searching for that blue fowl.

Now, 'paspe, don't be rough! He held up a protesting hand.

She did not spare him: I shall have to begin to call you Paulianna.

He grinned. I know I'm ridiculous, he admitted.

Anyhow, here is your coffee.

Thanks. He accepted the cup. You'll see for yourself, he went on defiantly, and O, God! 'paspe, Vera's so dull.

Had Mrs. Lorillard needed any additional evidence in regard to the truth of this latter dictum, she received it later in the afternoon. With her drawing-room crowded with what she called her time-fillers, men and women of Laura's set whom she permitted to visit her occasionally, Vera Moody was announced. The appearance in the doorway of stout Vera, her curved figure expensively upholstered in black velvet and bundled in furs, her bosom festooned with pearls, her eyes circled by a betraying red, was a signal for Campaspe to invent