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 proposed to keep that. But the Y. M. C. A. secretary, instead of regarding this stand as an indication of character, wept over this wolf lost to God. These anecdotes, typical press-cuttings from the news of the day, were, in their essence, comic arraignments of our civilization, or so Campaspe considered them. An attempt to trump up tears for the victims would always fail with a sophisticated audience, but when ridicule was aimed at the real offender, modern democracy or the church, a sense of tragic irony ensued. Something might even happen, although she was extremely dubious about this. It could hardly be expected that the best surgeons would be rushed to Sullivan Street to save the life of a poor Italian baby who had no intention of cheating the chair. Campaspe had a savage hatred of cruelty. She watched animal acts at the circus with the constant, but still ungratified, hope that the beasts would kill their trainers.

She lighted another cigarette. The doves had long since flown away. Aglaë, the tortoise, was reposing, the weight of his years weighing down his shell. Soft purple shadows in lacework fell athwart the flagstones. . . . Considering the heroines of modern fiction, reviewing their qualifications, Campaspe decided that Savina Grove and Mrs. Hurstpierpoint were the only two she would invite to call on her. They had lived their lives, not very amusing lives, perhaps, but at least their own. She remembered Idalia with pleasure. Idalia, though of