paspe, polishing her nails, glanced occasionally into a long mirror to note the effect of her costume.
Be sure, Frederika, she was saying, that there is enough ice in the Bacardi cocktails, and less grenadine than last time.
Yes, Mrs. Lorillard.
And I do hope cook hasn't forgotten to put garlic in the lamb.
No, madame.
If Campaspe harboured any other qualms about the dinner she forgot them. A line from Edith Dale's letter had slipped into her mind, the line descriptive of the horror in the chapel of the Penitentes: white-washed walls . . . splotched with blood-splashing . . . a little wagon with wooden wheels on which was seated a life-sized skeleton, laughing, bearing bow and arrow, the arrow poised, the bow drawn. . . . She heard the bell below ring faintly. Presently, the door was opened, and Lalla Draycott's hearty voice reverberated through the corridor.
