“Ah! but some people like blood. And some like boots. And some like long gloves and corsets. And some like birch-rods. And some like sliding down slopes and can’t look at Michelangelo’s ‘Night’ on the Medici Tombs without dying the little death, because the statue seems to be sliding. And some....”
“But I want something to drink,” insisted the young man.
Coleman stamped his feet, waved his arms. “À boire! à boire!” he shouted, like the newborn Gargantua. Nobody paid any attention.
The music came to an end. Gumbril and Mrs. Viveash reappeared.
“Dante,” said Coleman, “calls for drink. We must leave the building.”
“Yes. Anything to get out of this,” said Mrs. Viveash. “What’s the time?”
Gumbril looked at his watch. “Half-past one.”
Mrs. Viveash sighed. “Can’t possibly go to bed,” she said, “for another hour at least.”
They walked out into the street. The stars were large and brilliant overhead. There was a little wind that almost seemed to come from the country. Gumbril thought so, at any rate; he thought of the country.
“The question is, where?” said Coleman. “You can come to my bordello, if you like; but it’s a long way off and Zoe hates us all so much, she’ll probably set on us with the meat-chopper. If she’s back again, that is. Though she may be out all night. Zoe mou, sas agapo. Shall we risk it?”