I dare not call to him. Movelessly I stare after him until his form has vanished in the guise of a black speck behind the burning cliffs.
Then I wander farther … and farther … and farther….
* * * * *
It was on a grayish yellow day of autumn that I sat again after an interval on the upholstery of the famous café, I looked gratefully up at the brown slave-girl in the picture who blew upon her flutes as sleepily and dully as ever. I had come to see her.
I start for I feel a tap on my shoulder.
In brick-red gloves, his silk-hat over his forehead, a little more tired and world-worn than ever, that bosom friend whose name I have now definitely forgotten stood before me.
"Where the devil have you been all this time?" he asks.
"Somewhere," I answer laughing. "In the desert." …
"Gee! What were you looking for there?"
"Myself."…