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 in armour—and strange, aloof; he d-d-does not mate with the rose flamingos.

Campaspe smiled and smoothed out her frock. You are describing yourself, Ronald, she said.

You, Firebird, he went on, paying no heed to her interruption as he was in the mood for similizing, you are the crystal spider. You draw them all into your net: these Harolds and Bunnies and Zimbules. What a crew! Where do you find them?

It's my life to find them, but I never hunt.

He was, apparently, bent on comparison, for he continued, ponderingly, A catalyst, perhaps. . . Yes, certainly, a catalyst.

What, asked Paul, is a catalyst?

An agent which effects a chemical reaction while appearing to take no part in it, the Duke replied.

Campaspe enjoyed talking nonsense with the Duke. She wondered if they all were aware how different she was with each of them, how she reflected their respective temperaments. It was one of her purposes in life to act the part of mirror. Was it a black mirror today? she questioned herself.

Plans for the play progressed. The Duke thought of Drains, who, it appeared, had a talent for light magic. He could make rabbits appear from hats, and balance an eel on his left ear. Zimbule was delighted to assist. Her initial adventure in the theatre had proved sufficiently diverting. She