“I’ve just this minute arrived from Sicily and you are the first person I have seen. I’ve no desire to see her.”
“I thought she was looking extremely pretty——”
“You’re not hard to please.”
“I mean, prettier than she did in Paris.”
“Exoticism, no doubt—but if you’re feeling randy....”
“Lafcadio! Such language from you to me isn’t permissible.”
Julius tried to look severe, but only succeeded in pulling a face. He went on:
“You find me in a great state of agitation. I’m at a turning-point of my career. My head is burning and I feel, as it were, giddy all over, as if I were going to evaporate. I have come to Rome for a sociological congress, and during the three days I’ve spent here I’ve been going from surprise to surprise. Your arrival is the finishing touch.... I don’t recognise myself any longer.”
He was striding about the room; suddenly he stopped beside the table, seized the bottle, poured a stream of scent on to his handkerchief, applied it like a compress to his forehead and left it there.
“My dear young friend—if you’ll allow me to call you so.... My new book! I think I’ve got the hang of it. The way in which you spoke to me of On the Heights in Paris, makes me think that you will not find this one uninteresting.”