It is a pity cats don't
drink champagne. I would have made you to-night as drunk as
Bacchus. We drink, and in the stillness the glouglou of his
tongue forms a bass to the elfin notes of the Pommery in the
soda-water tumbler.
Ha! Twin purveyors of the milk of paradise, I wonder like Omar
what you buy one-half so precious as the stuff you sell. Motor-
cars for Mrs. Pommery and cakes for the little Grenos? I do not
like to regard you as common humans addicted to silk hats and
umbrellas and the other vices of respectability. Ye are rather
beneficent demigods, Castor and Pollux of the vine, dream
entities who pour from the sunset lands of Nowhere the liquid
gold of life's joyousness.
A few words scribbled on this telegraph form would bring her here
tomorrow night. But no. What is a week? Leaden-footed, it is
an eternity; but winged with the dove's iris it is a mere moment.
Besides, I must accustom myself to my youth. I must investigate
its follies, I must learn the grammar of its wisdom. We'll take
counsel together, Polyphemus, how to turn these chambers, fusty
with decayed thought, into a bridal bower radiant and fragrant
with innumerable loves.
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