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 in its definite contradictions, its wholly inappropriate rightness, wailed on. Harold, naturally, was lamentably bad. The curtain fell in silence, but, almost immediately, there rose a great storm of applause.

It belongs to Zimbule and Bunny, said Campaspe. Let them take the calls. Bunny, morbid with grief and chlorosis, and yet transfigured with excitement, was discovered hovering in a corner. As the curtains parted again, Paul pushed him on to the stage. Zimbule strolled on unconcernedly from the other side, dragging the reluctant Harold in her wake. Bunny groaned and buried his face in his hands. There were cries of Bravo! and Brava!

There has never been anything like it, Ronald, Campaspe exclaimed. I don't feel as if I had been part of it at all. I was so occupied looking and listening. Did I remember my lines?

You were perfect, Firebird. The Duke was distrait.

Strange. I don't remember having spoken a single word.

Drains had departed. The acrobats were dressing. The actors in their costumes mingled with the throng. Many of the guests, like sharks after a slain leviathan, crowded into the dining-room for supper, chaud-froid, truffle salad, spumoni. . . . Others lingered in the theatre. In the garden a little group of lanky, pale youths, demi-puceaux,