“North Pole!” he cried out impatiently.
“Well! well! well!”
He took my arm and led me down stairs, remarking: “I was about to eat the finest dinner I ever tasted in my life.”
I certainly enjoyed the meal. As a cook, Saxe. was an expert. His superb Sauterne and Chianti loosened our tongues, and Saxe. speedily learned I was wide and adrift as to my future intentions. This was during the pessimistic Sauterne stage, when the preparatory gloom of expected hilarity causes one to view life sadly, and I ended up a long-winded refrain with: “Honestly, Saxe., I believe the end of it all will be a woman!”
Saxe. was horrified.
“A woman!” he yelled, “A woman! good heavens, Salucci, you must be mad!”
“It’s an ordinary madness,” I snapped, “and I see no occasion for excitement if eventually the main idea should develop into a woman. What’s so terrible about it? All our brilliant men and heroes end their careers with a woman.”
“Stuff!” cried Saxe. “Stuff and nonsense! you’re not in earnest, you’d cease to interest me if you were. Yet there’s a lot in your statement. Many great men have ended with a woman—that was their death; but all accomplished their ambition before seeking diversion.”
I laughed, and told him he had just quoted me—women were the most delightful diversion the world contained. He flushed and tried to appear angry. I laughed louder and asked him how old he was. He seemed younger than when I left college. He shook his head impatiently, and cried, “Fudge! got over all that twenty years ago. I’m near fifty,” he told me, “but a man can remain the same age fifteen years. How old do I look?”
“Thirty-five,” I answered promptly.