A mandolin and a guitar
were being attacked; the room was full of smoke in nice, long crinkly
layers just like the artists draw the steam from a plum pudding on
Christmas posters, and a lady in a blue silk and gasolined gauntlets
was beginning to hum an air from the Catskills.
"Kerner," said I, "you are a fool."
"Of course," said Kerner, "I wouldn't let her go on working. Not my
wife. What's the use to wait? She's willing. I sold that water color
of the Palisades yesterday. We could cook on a two-burner gas stove.
You know the ragouts I can throw together? Yes, I think we will marry
next week."
"Kerner," said I, "you are a fool."
"Have an absinthe drip?" said Kerner, grandly. "To-night you are the
guest of Art in paying quantities. I think we will get a flat with a
bath."
"I never tried one--I mean an absinthe drip," said I.
The waiter brought it and poured the water slowly over the ice in the
dripper.
"It looks exactly like the Mississippi River water in the big bend
below Natchez," said I, fascinated, gazing at the be-muddled drip.
"There are such flats for eight dollars a week," said Kerner.
"You are a fool," said I, and began to sip the filtration. "What you
need," I continued, "is the official attention of one Jesse Holmes."
Kerner, not being a Southerner, did not comprehend, so he sat,
sentimental, figuring on his flat in his sordid, artistic way, while
I gazed into the green eyes of the sophisticated Spirit of Wormwood.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144