I stared at him. He recalled our
acquaintance at Etretat. I fished him up from the deeps of a
previous incarnation and vaguely remembered him as a young
American floral decorator who used to preach to me the eternal
doctrine of hustle. I shook hands with him and hoped that he was
well.
"Going very strong. Never stronger. Never so well as when I'm
full up with work. But you don't hurry around enough in this
dear, sleepy old country. Men lunch. In New York all the lunch
one has time for is to swallow a plasmon lozenge in a street-car."
His high pitched voice shrieked bombastic platitude into my ears
for an illimitable time. I answered occasionally with the fringe
of my mind. Could my agonised state of being have remained
unperceived by any human creature save this young, hustling,
dollar-centred New York floral decorator?
"Since we met, guess how many times I've crossed the Atlantic.
Four times!"
Long-suffering Atlantic!
"And about yourself. Still going _piano, piano_ with books and
things?"
"Yes, books and things," I echud.
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