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 congregated. The silent Ceylonese passed, expertly, up and down, through and about, with cigarettes and trays laden with minuscule glasses and fat bottles of Danziger Goldwasser.

Little by little, the excitement dwindled, and there were signs that the New York season would soon come to an end. One of these was the demeanour of the Duke who, from time to time, frankly yawned, making no effort to conceal his dehiscent jaw. Bunny had disappeared shortly after his tragic curtain call. Zimbule accepted her encomiums as if she found them exceedingly tiresome. She seemed exalted, disembodied. Campaspe, conscious of impending drama, hovered in her wake.

With a fiercer intensity Harold felt that a fatality assembled the elements which made up his life. He had begun to think of himself as an automaton, set up and wound to give pleasure. . . to whom? Not to himself. Not too much, apparently, to these others. Was he giving, then, some form of pleasure to his father. Was his father taking a perverse joy in watching him struggle in these nets of silk and gilt. At least, and at last, he was free of Zimbule. Once the curtains had fallen she had released his hand and left his side.

Campaspe, in her clinging blue robe, followed Zimbule down the stairs, listening to the re-echoing Remarkable! Marvellous! Divine! Extraordinary! Kolossal! Epatante! The crowd had seen something, heard something, tasted something, touched