Well, let everything go. Into the mud. Leave it there, and let the dogs lift their hind legs over it as they pass.
“Ah! the genuine platonic fumblers,” commented Coleman.
“I am Grimaldi,” Gumbril laughed. Further than this it was difficult to see where the joke could go. There, on the couch, where Mrs. Viveash and Coleman were now sitting, she had lain sleeping in his arms.
“Towsing, in Elizabethan,” said Coleman.
Unreal, eternal in the secret darkness. A night that was an eternal parenthesis among the other nights and days.
“I feel I’m going to be sick,” said the young man suddenly. He had wanted to go on silently and haughtily sulking; but his stomach declined to take part in the dignified game.
“Good Lord!” said Gumbril, and jumped up. But before he could do anything effective, the young man had fulfilled his own prophecy.
“The real charm about debauchery,” said Coleman philosophically, “is its total pointlessness, futility, and above all its incredible tediousness. If it really were all roses and exhilaration, as these poor children seem to imagine, it would be no better than going to church or studying the higher mathematics. I should never touch a drop of wine or another harlot again. It would be against my principles. I told you it was emetic,” he called to the young man.
“And what are your principles?” asked Mrs. Viveash.
“Oh, strictly ethical,” said Coleman.