His face, though unfamiliar, stirred some dormant
association. What was it? The profitless question pestered me
for hours. At last, during the performance at the theatre, I
slapped my knee and said aloud
"I've got it!"
"What?" asked Carlotta in alarm.
"A fly," I answered. Whereat Carlotta laughed, and bent forward
to get a view of the victim. I austerely directed her attention
to the stage. It was a metaphorical fly whose buzzing I had
stopped.
The young fellow was he who had pointed me out in Hyde Park to
his companion, and lightly assured her that I was as mad as a
dingo dog. From the moment after the phrase's utterance to that
of the slapping of my knee, it had been altogether absent from my
mind. Now it haunts me. It reiterates itself after the manner
of a glib phrase. I am glad I am not in a railway carriage; the
cranks would amuse the wheels with it all night long. As it is,
the surf tries to thunder it out on the shingle just a few yards
away from my window. I keep asking myself: why a dingo dog? If
I am mad it is in a gentle, Jaquesian, melancholy manner.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218