I do
not dash at life, rabid and foaming at the mouth.
I think the idiot simile must have been merely the misuse of
language so common among the half-educated youth of Great
Britain.
Yet when I come to consider my present condition, I have
doubts as to my complete sanity. Here am I, in a little,
semi-fashionable French seaside place, away from my books and
my comforts and my habits, as much interested in its vapid
distractions as if the universe held no other pursuits worth the
attention of a rational man. And I have been here a calendar
month.
To please Carlotta I wear white duck trousers, a pink shirt, and
a yachting-cap. I wired for them to my London tailor and they
arrived within a week. The first time I appeared in the maniacal
costume I slunk from the stony stare of a gendarme, as I was
about to ascend the Casino steps, and hid myself among the
fishing-boats lower down on the beach. Carlotta, however, was
delighted and said that I looked pretty. Now I have grown
callous, seeing other fools similarly apparelled.
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