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 that he passed most of his time there when he had no guests. It may be added, however, that the Duke was seldom alone. The third floor the owner had transformed—old New York houses are as capable of countless metamorphoses as Ovidian gods—into a miniature theatre, the walls of which had been decorated by Paul Thévenaz with dying stags, agile monkeys, wriggling serpents, gorgeous macaws, iridescent humming-birds, mad huntsmen, bayaderes, odalisques, and Hindu Rajahs. The drop-curtain was of silver cloth into which had been woven an infinity of semi-precious stones, in a conventional Persian design. It was in this theatre that the Duke proposed to give New York its season of summer opera.

On a sultry day, late in July, Campaspe, in a clinging garment of chartreuse swiss, with a Lucie Hamar hat of geranium-red, flesh-coloured stockings, and ivory kid shoes with vermilion heels, sat with the Duke and Paul under the great umbrella in the garden, discussing plans for the opera. Out of Jacobite ale-glasses with air-twist stems they were sipping that pleasant hot-weather mixture, gin and ginger beer, cooled with ice and flavoured with limes. A bowl of chopped ice, several unopened stone bottles of Idris, and a blue pitcher half-full of Gordon gin stood on the table between them. The Duke's suit, too, was of blue, the coolest of colours, he explained, exactly the colour to compete