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 composure as she could assume, taking into consideration the fact that Harold was probably the one person alive that she cared very much about seeing.

October came to New York warm and golden. The early days of the month, indeed, resembled the sultry daughters of midsummer. Nevertheless, in spite of the unusual heat, Campaspe's friends began to return from the country and from Europe. Every train, every boat, brought more of them back, and Campaspe's mail grew heavier with invitations to lunch and dinner. Houses on Park and Madison Avenues opened their boarded eyelids and one encountered familiar and friendly motors in the Park. The Ritz, Voisin's, Pierre's, and the Crillon at one o'clock were again crowded with gay, brilliant groups. Mrs. Pollanger had even begun to plan a charity entertainment for the last days of the month. A bit of scandal enlivened, for Campaspe, the monotony of this accustomed renaissance. Amy, having lost her Paul, had, according to report, found her Paula. Laura, of course, alalways correct, had come back with the others, and had opened her house in East Sixty-eighth Street for a few weeks, long enough, at least, to afford her the opportunity of packing her boys off to school and arranging a few dinners before she went away again. The winter exodus was already a subject under discussion. Recurrence was a word that held few terrors for the members of Laura's con-